


Junk Hunting

by filthy_rat



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, the reader presented in this fic is cis female
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-12-30 06:19:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12102609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filthy_rat/pseuds/filthy_rat
Summary: When out hunting for treasure, you come across a certain ex-Junker and make it your mission to steal his prize out from under his own nose. But when you get yourself caught by the infamous criminal, you're not sure where this new mission will take you.





	1. Junk Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ don't look at me you know what this is

You are a treasure hunter. A mercenary, on your better days. Someone well versed in the dark dealings of the dangerous underworld. Someone who has seen their fair share of fucked up and come out of it unscathed. Mostly. Normally you operate out of Junkertown, but the Queen has been feeling a little… _murderous_ lately, and it’s just best for your health if you tried new avenues.

So you decide to branch out.

You’ve found yourself in Nevada, USA, at a local biker bar in the middle of nowhere, attempting to sniff out some sort of a lead. _Any_ sort of a lead. You’re on your last five dollars at this point. Which you have just slapped onto the bar and used to order shots.

_Well fuck._

As you’re downing your drinks, numbly wondering if maybe your old boss back in your hometown’s piggly-wiggly will take you back, you hear a familiar voice approaching the entrance to the bar. A voice with a strong Australian accent.

“...figured we’d have no problem findin’ it, mate, you can’t go blamin’ this mess on me!”

You glance towards the doors as they swing open wide, and there stands two people you never thought you’d ever lay eyes on again: wanted criminals Junkrat and Roadhog. They stroll into the bar and no one even looks up or takes notice. It must be a regular occurrence. They pull up chairs at a nearby table and sit. A tired waitress approaches a moment later, takes their order, and then disappears behind the bar.

Oh, what a fortuitous turn of events.

Having lived in Junkertown for a long time, you’re well versed in the shenanigans these two usually get up to. In fact, they’re the reason Junkertown has become so unfriendly as of late. Apparently they had pushed the Queen just too far and gotten themselves kicked out. You never did find out what they had done. There were rumors floating around that they had stolen from her, but you can’t imagine either of them would be that suicidally stupid.

And now Junkrat’s blabbing about some kind of treasure. You listen intently.

“Listen, mate,” he’s saying, in what _should_ be a conspiratorial whisper, but you doubt Junkrat’s voice has the ability to do that. Instead he’s just talking at a normal volume. “I say we call it a day, there’s no way we’re findin’ anything out there tonight.”

Roadhog says nothing. You glance over your shoulder at the pair, hoping they don’t spot you. The last thing you need to is to be recognized by two of Junkertown’s most infamous exiles. Especially when you’re planning on stealing what they’re trying to steal.

“We go out tomorrow first thing, and beat everyone else to it.” Junkrat leans back in his chair, tipping it onto its back legs and propping his foot and peg leg on the table. He crosses his scrawny arms across his chest and regards his massive, silent companion with a contemplative scowl. “Reckon we might hafta have a blue with those other blokes if they don’t rack off...”

Roadhog says nothing. The waitress approaches with their beers and places them on the table. She turns away but Roadhog clears his throat impatiently.

With a heavy, tired sigh, she fishes a straw from her apron pocket, drops it on the table, and leaves them. You watch Roadhog remove the straw from its paper sleeve, bend it in half (is it even a bendy straw?), and drop it in his beer. Junkrat just lifts his tankard and pours half of it down his gullet. It splashes and dribbles from his open mouth. Under your breath you snort out a quiet laugh. He’s just making the most _ridiculous_ face.

God, what a pair they make.

Roadhog sips silently from his beer, the straw stuck between openings in his mask. Junkrat slams his empty tankard on the table with a sigh and satisfied belch. He wipes his mouth on his forearm and leans back in his chair, arms behind his head. He glances around the bar as Roadhog finishes up his pint, and you quickly hide your face with your last remaining shot. Luckily, Junkrat’s attention span is less than that of a common household fly so he doesn’t even see you.

Eventually, the pair of them get up and exit. They don’t pay for their drinks, and no one even seems to care. You wonder how often Junkrat had to threaten to burn the place to the ground before people just stopped paying them any mind. Frankly, you can’t really blame these people for just giving in to them. From what you saw in Junkertown, the two of them could cause real damage without even breaking a sweat. Appeasing them is probably the easiest way to deal with them.

You wait two minutes, get up from your barstool, and hurry after them.

Luckily, they aren’t too difficult to track. The sand outside the bar is a mishmash of different footprints intermingling, but theirs are distinct. You quickly pick up their trail, leading deep into the desert. Far in the distance, you can barely make out two figures walking through the dunes, one large and one small. With daylight quickly disappearing, you start following them.

By the time night has fully fallen over the desert, you’ve found the ex-Junkers’ campsite. They’ve set up two tents and built a fire against an outcropping of rocks, partially protecting them from the elements.  Dropping into a crouch, you circle around the camp, slowly approaching from behind. As you edge in closer to the outside of the camp, you peer over the large rocks on the edges, and realize that the camp is empty. The fire crackles in the pit, the tents are unzipped, and Junkrat’s grenade launcher is propped up against a nearby rock.

_Huh? This is where their footprints lead…_

From somewhere behind you comes the unmistakeable sound of a shotgun being cocked. Your blood turns to ice in your veins. Slowly you lift your empty hands as the barrel of Roadhog’s shotgun rests against the back of your skull. Then you hear the familiar maniacal giggling. You close your eyes as you realize that you’ve been caught. _Idiot!_

“Aha!” shrieks Junkrat triumphantly as he leaps out from behind you, grinning wide. “Gotcha! Oh, you really stepped in it this time, mate!”

Roadhog lets out a deep, wheezing laugh as his meaty hand grabs your upper arm, hauls you to your feet, and shoves you into the camp. You stumble forward, catching yourself before you pitch face-first into the fire. Slowly, Roadhog enters the camp behind you, and walks to the opposite side of the fire.

Junkrat snatches up his grenade launcher and aims it at you. You feel your heart skip several beats as you stare at the painted face of the first grenade within the barrel.

“Waaaaait a tick,” says Junkrat, stepping closer and leaning in to look you in the face. You lean back instinctively as he invades your personal space. He squints suspiciously as he studies you. You always secretly thought he was cute in an unconventional kind of way, but that thought flies out the window when you’ve got a deadly weapon aimed at your skull.

“I recognize you, from Junkertown!” He pushes the barrel of his grenade launcher into your stomach. You suddenly can’t breathe.

“You workin’ for the Queen, mate?” he asks, his teeth clenched.

“Hell, no! Ever since you two skipped she’s been on a warpath,” you say, your words coming out in a terrified rush. “I had get out if I wanted to keep anything from the neck up.”

It’s impossible to say if Junkrat actually believes you. The barrel slowly lifts from your stomach to your face. It’s merely inches away. At this range, he _definitely_ won’t miss.

“Whoa, easy there, string bean,” you say, nervously eyeing the explosive end of his grenade launcher. “I don’t want any trouble.”

Junkrat’s left eye narrows, his right eye widens, and he pokes your cheek with the barrel of the grenade launcher. You flinch, expecting to be blown into pieces at any second. Jamison Fawkes is not exactly known for his steady trigger finger.

“What’re ya doin’ skulkin’ ‘round our camp, then, mate?”

“...I got lost?” you lie, offering your best attempt at an unassuming and apologetic smile. You’re really hoping he’ll be thick enough to believe that, but luck has never been on your side before. Why would it start now?

Junkrat’s expression remains unamused, his nose wrinkled and his brow furrowed as he glares at you sourly. The barrel of his launcher fixed at your chest, he turns and looks over his shoulder at Roadhog, who is now sitting by the fire and poking it repeatedly with a sharp stick.

“What should we do with ‘em, Hog? Kill ‘em? Barbecue ‘em?” He grins at the prospect of stringing you up over the fire on a spit and roasting you.

Roadhog looks up from the flames, his blank masked face obviously betraying no emotion, and says nothing.

There’s a moment where the two of them simply stare at each other in complete silence. Your eyes flick from Roadhog to Junkrat and back again three or four times. Just as you begin to think you might be able to sneak away unnoticed, Junkrat whirls around to face you with an exultant shriek. Again, you flinch reflexively, expecting a fiery death.

“Of course! We gotta _search_ ya, make sure you ain’t carryin’ nothin’,” he says, grinning like the manic goblin he is. You don’t think you’ve ever seen a more terrifying expression on a human before.

_Oh shit._

With the launcher’s barrel still trained over your heart, Junkrat begins patting you down, searching for weapons. He circles you as he searches, retrieving the concealed Bowie knife on your calf and the pistol tucked into the back waistband of your jeans. He reeks of smoke and gunpowder and alcohol, but you still think he’s… kind of cute up close. In that weird, dirty, stray dog kind of way. And you can’t stop yourself from thinking this, despite the fact that he’s poking you in the back with a deadly custom frag launcher. You were never one for common sense.

Roadhog watches the entire spectacle in complete silence. Occasionally he pokes at the fire. Part of you feels incredibly judged by his staring, but it’s impossible to tell with the mask.

This is turning into a nightmare.

Once you are relieved of every weapon (yes, even the pair of travel fingernail clippers you keep in your pocket), Junkrat finally lowers his grenade launcher. He stumps across the camp, deposits all your weapons in a beat up metal lockbox, slaps a padlock on it, and proudly turns to face you again, hands fisted on his hips.

“There! Now ya won’t be a threat to no one anymore!”

“Why, you little --” you snarl, and step forward to throttle him with your bare hands, but Roadhog suddenly stands and takes a menacing step towards you. He’s much faster than you imagine a man of his size could be, and it throws you off. You freeze in your tracks and retreat away from the cowering Junkrat. With a defeated sigh, you merely sit on a nearby rock, head in your hands, and Roadhog wheezes another rumbling chuckle through the mask. Your cheeks burn with shame.

However, it appears Roadhog is not threatening you at all, actually. He walks right past you, heading away from the glow of the fire and into the deep blue desert surroundings.

“W-Wait, where ya goin’?” calls Junkrat, almost sounding frightened to be left alone with you.

“Firewood,” replies Roadhog, and he slowly descends the hill upon which their camp sits.

You lift your head and chance a glimpse at Junkrat. He’s making a face somewhere between confused and annoyed. It seems to be an emotion he has often, whatever that emotion might be called. You watch his eyes flick from Roadhog’s disappearing form to the massive pile of firewood stacked up by their tents and back again. He seems to be working something out. You smile, just slightly, despite the circumstances. You can almost see the gears turning in his noggin. Again, kind of cute. You make the mistake of chuckling under your breath.

Junkrat’s gaze immediately snaps to you, brow furrowed angrily.

“Sorry.”

“You better just watch y’self, mate,” grumbles Junkrat, sitting down by the fire and taking up the poking stick. As he jabs at the flaming logs, he watches you with a mistrustful glare to his eyes. Clearly this is a man who has spent the better part of his life alone. You aren’t sure why, but the thought stirs a sadness within you.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re on your feet and crossing the camp to sit beside him. He seems too shocked to react in any meaningful way, despite the fact that his grenade launcher is leaning against his thigh. He simply stares at you, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, as you seat yourself beside him on his log.

You clear your throat as if this is entirely normal. “So, what are you going to do with me?” you ask.

Junkrat gives his head a violent little shake to clear it, quickly regaining his composure. “Uh, well. Me ‘n ol’ pigface were gonna just kill ya,” he says matter-of-factly, resuming his aggressive stabbing of the fire. “But _he’s_ got this whole thing against killin’ unarmed people, so…” He glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Reckon since ya not much of a threat without ya weapons, no harm in lettin’ ya stay the night.”

“...That’s _uncharacteristically_ nice of you, Jamison.”

You just keep shocking him, it seems. Jerking upright, he stares at you with wide eyes and a flabbergasted expression. When was the last time someone called him by his real name? _Is he blushing?_

“...Don’t go tellin’ anyone,” he grumbles, settling back into his tough and gruff facade. “Wouldn’t want everyone t’know about our charitable nature.”

“Of course.”

“You oughtta be more careful,” he says, with a grin that somehow comes across more threatening than his scowls. He lifts his fire-jabbing stick and gesticulates at you with it accusatorily. “Not everyone out there is as nice as us.”

Again, you smile and laugh, despite the sharp stick pointed at you in what could be described as a threatening manner. Junkrat looks positively flustered at this response, and his cheeks get a little pinker.

“Why d’ya keep laughin’ at me?” he asks, brows furrowed. It’s difficult to say for certain but he almost looks a little hurt by your laughter. You feel a slight twinge of guilt.

“...I don’t know, because you’re funny? I thought that was what you were going for.”

“Well, I mean, I’m not always tryin’ to be,” he says, angrily snapping the fire-poking stick into several pieces and flinging them one by one into the flames until his hands are empty. “All I am to everyone is a damn joke,” he says, planting the elbow of his mechanical arm against his thigh and propping up his head with his fist.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him so open, and part of you wonders if perhaps he’s simply forgotten he’s supposed to be guarded around you. Maybe your unconventional reactions have poked enough holes in the walls he’s built up that they’re starting to crumble. You don’t pretend to know much about him, but you’re not total strangers. And he’s always maintained a relatively upbeat attitude, as far as you’re aware.

You aren’t exactly sure what to say. Things have gone from life-threatening to just a little awkward much faster than expected. The moment drags on, uncomfortable and silent. Finally, you can’t take it anymore and speak up.

“Well, that’s just not true, though.”

“...Really?” he says, straightening and shooting you a non-terrifying grin, a spark of hope igniting in his eyes. And a spark of flame from the fire igniting the end of his wild hair.

Smiling, you lick the tips of your fingers and extinguish the tiny flame spreading in his hair. “Really. I mean, you’re _fucking terrifying,_ Jamison _._ I’ve never seen Widowmaker run away faster from anyone else.” The thought of Amelie screeching French curses as Junkrat’s rolling explosive tire of death chases her down the streets of King’s Row has you giggling.

For the first time since you were brought to the camp, his expressions shifts to that of an actual human being. He looks almost proud of himself, and not like he normally does after making something explode. He starts to speak, but a new voice, from shockingly close, interrupts him.

“Junkrat! You slimy, smelly, crazy-ass goblin-face piece of shit! Where the _fuck_ are you?”

“Dammit,” mutters Jamison, and he grabs your wrist. As quickly as he can with his considerable limp, he pulls you towards the tents and pushes you inside one. “Stay here and _keep quiet_ ,” he commands, and zips the tent shut. You listen as he scoops up his grenade launcher and stumps quickly away from the camp. Eventually his uneven footsteps recede out of earshot.

“Fellas! Fancy meetin’ you out here!” shouts the now-distant voice of Junkrat, growing more distant by the second. It sounds as if he’s leading them away from the campsite. Eventually their voices disappear into the desert, drowned out by the sound of the nearby crackling fire and the wind whistling through the dunes.

For several minutes, there is silence. Sitting amongst the messy and pitch-dark tent of Jamison Fawkes, you begin to fear the worst. You also notice he sleeps with a plush stick of dynamite. It looks very old and a little dirty. There’s a mismatched patch on one end that looks hand-sewn. You find yourself clutching the stuffed toy to your chest for emotional support as the minutes drag on.

Suddenly, there are several screams of terror accompanied by the firing of guns, a _huge_ explosion, followed by a series of smaller kabooms, and the faint sound of high-pitched, maniacal laughter. Silence again falls. The minutes tick by. Your ears eventually pick up distant footsteps, oddly uneven, slow but approaching.

“You can come out now,” says Jamison, his voice tired, and you fumble with the zipper for a split second before finally unzipping the tent.

Jamison stands there, expression unusually steely, covered in blood from his scalp to his navel. His hair is freshly singed and smoking, and there’s a new layer of soot coating his shorts and bare chest. His rip-tire is missing, and his grenade launcher is conspicuously empty. His arms are laden with unfamiliar weapons like a smoking shotgun, a large pistol, a baseball bat with nails stuck in the end, and a machete. He drops them unceremoniously on the ground.

It’s quite the sight to behold. You remember suddenly that Junkrat is a dangerous and unpredictable killer, and a chill steals into your veins. You climb out of the tent slowly, taking in the sight of him.

“Are you alright?”

He saddles you with an intense glare, his lips curling into a deeply terrifying smile. “S’not my blood, mate.”

“ _Oh._ ”

Shrugging out of his rip-tire harness, he crosses the camp to a bucket of water they use to douse the fire, takes a fistful, and wipes his mouth and eyes free of blood, smearing gore across his face and just generally making it worse. As he cleans himself off (as sloppily as possible), you notice the small dark stain on the leg of his shorts. It’s growing steadily bigger and it isn’t drying like the rest of the blood he’s washing away.

“Shit, you _are_ hurt,” you say, pointing to it.

Face dripping with bloody water, he looks down to where you’re pointing with an expression of mild surprise, as if you have simply told him his shoe is untied. Which _is_ currently untied, but that’s beside the point.

“Oh, that’s what that is,” he says, poking the dark red stain with the fingertip of his prosthetic hand. “I thought I was just havin’ a muscle cramp,” he says with a little giggle.

“We need to clean it,” you say pointedly.

Junkrat shrugs. “It’ll scab over ‘n a few days.”

No way is that going to fly. You grab him by the shoulders, yank him away from the water bucket, and plop him firmly on his ass by the fire. He is, thankfully, too shocked to protest much, only managing a wordless bleat of rage before you have him settled on the log. You drag the heavy water bucket closer for easier access, and scrounge up some spare cloth to use as a rag. The water is only slightly clean and the rag is no better but it’ll have to do.

Blushing only a little, you drop to your knees in front of him and slowly peel the left leg of his torn shorts away from the wound. He winces audibly, drawing in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, but doesn’t move or shy away from your touch. His pale, stringy thigh now laid bare before you, you take in the extent of the damage. Your hands are splayed on either side of the wound, steadying his leg so you can see. You try very hard to keep a professional attitude. _You’re just binding a wound, this isn’t weird at all..._

It’s a small gash, about the length of your middle finger, and only an inch deep, and it runs across the inside of his thigh, close to his knee.

“Looks like a bullet just grazed your leg,” you say. “I think you’ll live,” you add, and dip the cloth in the cool bucket of water. “What... exactly happened?”

“Well, those dodgy dipsticks were tryin’ to -- ow!” He yelps in pain as you apply the wet rag to his injury, and gives you a positively insulted scowl. “That hurt!”

“Don’t be such a baby,” you say reproachfully with a little smile, dabbing away the blood while Jamison twitches and grunts in pain.

“...Why’re you bein’ so nice to me?”

You look up from his leg and meet his curious and confused gaze. For a moment, you think on the question, just studying his face while you think it over. His eyes are a very pretty color and you realize you have never noticed before.

Why are you even here? You sought out his camp to steal from him, didn’t you? To beat him to his treasure? Even though he has relieved you of your weapons and poked you repeatedly with the explode-y end of his grenade launcher, you admit you’re developing a soft spot for him. Despite his lack of obvious outward appeal, you find yourself enjoying his company more and more.

“...I just like you, I guess.”

“Ya do?!” He looks downright incredulous and you smile.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Well, _yeah_ , I mean. _No one_ likes me. Not the Junkers, not Roadhog. _I_ don’t even like me,” he says, that same wide-eyed incredulity mingling with just a hint of sadness painted all over his face. Again you are reminded strongly of a stray, feral dog. Dirty and wary and maybe just a little bit mentally unsound, but still very cute.

“Sounds like you could use someone in your life that likes you, then,” you say with a smile, and finish cleaning his wound. You pretend you don’t see the little smile curving Jamison’s lips or the subtle flush to his cheeks.

“Do we have anything for a bandage?” you ask, casting a searching glance around the ramshackle camp.

“Roadie n’ me don’t usually bother with this stuff,” he says, gesturing to the still-bleeding wound on his leg that you’re attempting to dress. “Cuts n’ scrapes n’ bullet wounds ain’t exactly a high priority ‘round here.”

You shake your head incredulously. “How are you even still alive?”

“Reckon I’m just ridiculously lucky,” he says, grinning that manic little grin as his gaze follows you around the camp as you search for something to use as a bandage. After a moment of rummaging, you find some scrap fabric from what looks like an old baby blanket in a wooden crate. The crate is full of glass bottles, mostly half-full of alcohol, and stuffed with scraps of cloth. You suspect Jamison is dabbling in bartending -- there’s enough cocktails here to burn down the entirety of Junkertown and then some.

It’s the only piece of cloth you can find that’s not stained with oil or blood or mystery liquid, though, so it’ll have to do.

You return to his side and settle again between his knees to bind the wound. You feel his unwavering gaze following your every movement as you wrap the fabric around his scrawny thigh and tie it into a secure knot. When you’re finished, he bends his peg leg experimentally, and flashes you a toothy grin.

His face is still mostly covered in dried blood, though, and this ghoulish juxtaposition makes you cringe. His smile melts away into slightly hurt confusion. Another twinge of guilt pulls at your heartstrings.

“Come here,” you command, and you retrieve the wet rag, wring out the excess water, and gently tug his face closer to yours. As you drag the rag across his skin and wipe the dried blood from his face, his expression is unusually vulnerable. He drinks in the details of your face like a man dying of thirst, and you wonder just how long he’s been this starved for any sort of gentle or friendly touch. The thought kind of breaks your heart a little.

You wipe the last few remnants of blood splatter from his face, slowly dragging the damp rag across his bottom lip as you subconsciously wet your own. Jamison’s jaw muscle jumps and you pretend you don’t see it. You finish wiping down his face with a brilliant smile, cupping his jaw and brushing your thumb against his now-clean cheekbone.

“Much better,” you say softly, and your heart is unexpectedly racing. He’s so close and his gaze is so sincere, so genuinely craving your closeness and affection.

Suddenly he’s kissing you, the intensity of the moment briefly overriding his senses. His hands are cradling your face with such tenderness, fingers tangling in your hair, as if he’s afraid he might break you. Like he breaks everything else. Like the world broke him.

At first the shock of it has your eyes blown wide, your posture tense, but slowly you melt into it, your hands trapped between your chest and his, feeling his pulse quicken at your touch. His lips are surprisingly soft.

And then, as quickly as it began, the kiss comes to an abrupt halt. Jamison jerks back like you’ve doused him with cold water, his hands clamping down over his mouth, eyes wide.

“I-I… So. Sorry, I’m sorry, am so...” he says, his muffled voice trailing off into mortified silence.

It takes you a moment to get your bearings. The kiss had been so unexpected and when you finally gather yourself enough to react, he’s withdrawing. You let out a chuckle under your breath, and gently pull his hands away from his mouth.

“What’re you sorry for?” And this time, you’re the one who leans in to capture his lips in another kiss.

Now it’s Jamison’s turn to be shocked. He stiffens, unsure of how to proceed, until your arms slip around his neck and he knows this is no accident. He sighs into your mouth then, pulling you tightly into his embrace, still so terrified that he will ruin you, but even more terrified that you will disappear. He always was a selfish man.

When you pull away to breathe, to calm the rapid pounding of your heart, Jamison’s expression is nothing short of tortured.

“What’s wrong?”

“I-I… I don’t -- I’m. I’m-I’m not… Not --” He grimaces at his own inability to coherently speak his mind.

“Hey,” you say, pressing your fingertips against his lips to silence him. “Don’t talk like that. If I didn’t want this, I wouldn’t be doing it.”

You cradle his face between your hands, brushing your fingers over his skin slowly. He closes his eyes, leaning his head into your touch. His arms tighten around your waist, drawing you deeper into his embrace. You kiss him again, lingering for as long as you can, savoring the smokiness of him. He tastes like a campfire. You feel his fingers curl in your shirt at the small of your back, holding you, preventing the mirage from escaping.

When you part this time, there’s an unmistakeable heat behind his gaze, and it sends a shock of warmth through you. Gone is the shy and unsure Jamison, that much is for certain, and you catch a glimmer of manic Junkrat in his gaze. No one has ever looked at you with such intensity. Your pulse quickens as his hands move slowly down your body, purposeful in their intent.

“Stay,” he says, his voice surprisingly quiet for once. It might’ve been a command if not for the half-pleading tone to his voice. But you’re confused. Isn’t that already the plan?

“I thought I was going to?”

His lips curl into an impish little smile, and his fingers flex, squeezing your backside firmly. Suddenly his meaning his clear. Your entire body feels abruptly hot and it’s very hard to draw breath.

“I meant… stay _with me._ ”

_Oh._

To answer, you get to your feet and take his mechanical hand in yours. Like a loyal hound, he obediently follows as you pull him into his tent. The pair of you fall in a jumble of limbs onto his bedroll, mouths feverishly finding each others’ in the dim light. Jamison is atop you, one his thighs between your own, inches from where you want it most. He shifts, bringing the leg further north, but it still doesn’t connect. Against his mouth you let out a frustrated groan.

He giggles in your ear, and you can practically hear the self satisfied grin to his voice.

“Eager, ain’t we?”

You hate to admit it, but you _are_ eager, eager to see what kind of surprises he has up his sleeves for you. Before you can give voice to your desires, Jamison’s mouth moves, trailing kisses down your neck and shoulder that seem to burn deliciously, tiny little explosives all on their own. He tugs impatiently at the hem of your shirt, untucking it from your pants, and exposing your midriff to the cool night air. His hands dive enthusiastically beneath your shirt, massaging your breast through your bra until you gasp and arch against him.

“Ooh,” he murmurs in your ear, “What do we have here?”

“Please, Jamison,” you whisper, and he playfully nips your shoulder. Goosebumps ripple across your flesh as he kneads your breast, his rough mechanical thumb grazing across your hardening nipple. As he teases you, he takes the tip of a gloved finger in his teeth and tugs, pulling off the glove and tossing it away. His now-bare hand slides down to your exposed waist, yearning to feel your skin against his.

His chest and stomach are warm against your body but another ripple of goosebumps surges through you regardless. Jamison’s hands are inexpert but they more than accomplish his goal. His mouth and hands are everywhere at once, overwhelming you with sensation. When he sighs your name in your ear between kisses, your heart leaps into your throat.

Suddenly impatient with your clothing getting in his way, he yanks your shirt over your head and tosses it aside, leaning back to look down at you. There’s a hungry gleam in his eyes as he drinks you in, his hands stroking slowly across your skin. His gaze lingers on the fly of your jeans, and his lips curl into an eager smile.

“Mm, I _hate_ waiting,” says Jamison, a slight growl to his voice that sends pleasurable shivers down your spine. His deft hands make quick work of undoing your jeans, his fingers hooking in the waistband and yanking them sharply off you. You have to grab the bedroll to keep from being pulled off. Carelessly, he tosses the wadded bundle of jeans over his shoulder and returns to you, hungry for more.

“Say my name again, darl,” he whispers, half-pleading in your ear as his mouth moves from your jaw to your neck.

“Jamie,” you sigh, and he makes a pleased noise against your skin, sending ripples of warmth stealing through you. Guess that means he likes that nickname.

He forges a slow, meandering path down the length of your body with his lips -- down your neck and shoulder, over your breasts and the valley between, across your stomach and lower, until it’s clear where he’s headed.

“Wh-what are you doing?” You prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, mortified beyond description.

“I’m just goin’ back home, babe,” he says matter-of-factly, smirking up at you while his fingertips toy with the waistband of your panties. He sneaks a finger to stroke the growing wetness between your legs, making your whole body tremble.

“What?” is about all you can manage.

“Well, ‘cause I come from the land down under,” he says, eyebrows dancing suggestively, his smirk blossoming into a full grin, and he lets out a little giggle at his own cleverness.

Before you can protest further, he hooks your knees over his shoulders, pulls your panties aside, and his mouth is _there_ and words simply fail you. His enthusiastic lips and tongue transform your breathless, surprised laughter into sharp, tortured moans. Helplessly, you fall back onto the bedroll and buck against his mouth, but he follows your movements, slipping an arm around your hips to steady you, to anchor you. To keep you from shattering too early. His free hand extends to caress your breast, his thumb flicking across your perked nipple, and a whine escapes you.

Jamison winds you tighter and tighter, driving you headlong towards the abyss, and when you gasp out a warning, he groans a wordless noise of assent. His mechanical hand finds yours in the darkness, and your fingers lace together. It’s a startlingly tender moment for him, but your mind is preoccupied with other thoughts.

Your orgasm rocks you to your core and you cry out, squeezing his hand as you arch upwards. He continues on, tasting deep the salt and slickness of you, until you squeal and writhe from overstimulation. Only then does he withdraw, grinning triumphantly as he wipes his slick mouth on his forearm.

“You… are entirely too good at that,” you whisper through trembling, ragged breaths. Jamison rolls you onto your side, curling against your back. He presses a kiss to your shoulder blade. There’s a subtle hard prod against your backside. Looks like you’re not the only one enjoying yourself.

“Why’s that so surprising?” he asks in mock outrage. “Guy like me can’t enjoy giving the ol’ pink bits a taste?” The crudeness of the statement makes you wrinkle your nose, but his grin only grows wider. “You made some right pretty noises, darl.”

For just a moment, he lays there with you, one arm propping up his head, the other draped over your waist, his bare chest pressed against your back. As you recover, he explores your body with his hand, sliding from your breast to your thigh and everywhere in between. His mouth leaves short kisses on your neck, your earlobe, your jaw, your shoulder. He can’t seem to stop touching you.

“Ready for round two?” he asks, and the timbre of his voice in your ear sends another shiver down your spine.

You turn, twisting to look him in the eye. His playful, crazed smile melts away into an intense gaze that makes you shiver. You reach up and touch his face, grazing your palm across his cheekbone. In the low light of the tent, his eyes glint like two gold coins, entrancing you. You brush your thumb against his lower lip, eyes following the movement. He kisses you then, deep and hard, clinging to you like a drowning man holding a lifesaver, wanting you. _Needing_ you.

While his mind is preoccupied, you sneak a hand to the crotch of his shorts, and find that insistent hardness poking you. You cup him through the fabric and he gasps in surprise. It’s your turn to smile now.

“I’m more than ready,” you say, rolling over completely now, to face him. To watch his expressions shift as you coyly touch him. Your fingers slowly undo the buttons of his shorts, making room for your questing hand and to your surprise, you find he wears _nothing_ underneath. “Ooh, commando.”

“Mmm, you know it, babe,” he says, practically growling as your fingers curl around his shaft. Shit, he’s… _much_ bigger than you’d expect for such a scrawny guy, and the realization sends a little thrill through you. He moves closer, burying his face against your neck as you slowly stroke him, rewarding your attentions with quiet moans. You get the distinct impression he’s used to keeping himself quiet during moments like this, and the irony of it makes you smile just a little.

“It’s just us, Jamie,” you whisper, “I want to hear you.”

He hesitates for a moment, unsure, and you give the head of his cock a gentle squeeze to encourage him. He groans again, louder this time, and you give your own appreciative sounds in response. As you continue your teasing, he presses ravenous kisses to your throat and collarbone, his desire to give you pleasure still driving him onward. Occasionally he nips gently at your skin, sending ripples of goosebumps cascading down your body.

“I can’t take much more of this,” he finally says, moaning around the words as your thumb glides across the head, slipping in the clear bead of precum collecting at the very tip. “You keep this up and I’m… I’m liable to _explode.”_

“Promise?”

“You gonna just give me a wristie and leave me hangin’?” he asks, a slight whine to his voice that makes you chuckle under your breath.

“Sounds like you have some ideas,” you reply, and Jamison nips at your throat. You wonder briefly if there will be marks on you come morning, and the idea thrills you to no end.

“I’ve got more than some, sweetheart,” he growls, and his hands are suddenly on your ass, squeezing and groping. He pulls you roughly against him, letting you feel the hard press of his arousal against your inner thigh, and his intent is more than clear. Another thrill of pleasure ripples through you, and you close your eyes with an appreciative sigh.

He rolls you onto your back, hovering above you on all fours. “Keep them eyes closed, doll,” he commands, and you feel his hands impatiently push away the fabric of your bra. His mouth is suddenly there at your breast, his eager tongue lapping at your nipple until you gasp. All the while his stiff cock presses against your thigh, building up within you a ravenous desire that makes you nearly delirious. As he lavishes your breasts with attention, his wily hands slide your panties from your hips, coaxing them down to your ankles.

“Jamie, _please,_ ” you whine, as he moves his mouth from one nipple to another and ignores your pleas. You open your eyes a sliver to glance down at him, and he’s watching you.

“Peekin’, eh? That’s a spankin’ offense, you know,” he says, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“Jamie, I. Please, I need…”

He giggles in your ear. “Need what? I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about…”

You voice your frustration with a groan through clenched teeth. “I thought you hated waiting,” you say accusatorily.

As an answer, he kisses you, hard enough to steal your breath and leave you trembling. His teeth scrape your bottom lip, nibbling at the sensitive skin and coaxing open your mouth. You gasp against his lips as you feel the insistent press of his cock against your slickness. He fumbles with himself for a moment, head slipping against your waiting folds, before finally finding purchase and sliding home.

You break the kiss to cry out, fingers clutching desperately at his shoulders as he pushes forward, filling you inch by inch until he’s fully hilted. His moans fill your ears, stilted and trembling and oh, so delicious, but he manages to speak.

“Say my name again.”

“Jamison,” you sigh, and your eyes flutter open to meet his gaze. There’s such a heat behind his eyes that you feel you might melt.

He kisses you deep again, unable to quench his thirst for your lips, and his hands draw your thighs around his hips.

The pace he sets initially is unhurried, slow, practically lazy. He’s content to torture you for as long as he can, it seems. He buries his nose against your throat as he thrusts against you, muffling his moans with kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone, your jaw. Each thrust brings you closer to the edge of oblivion, every kiss sets your skin alight with pleasure, every moan in your ear you echo with your own. You wrap your arms around his thin shoulders, begging him with breathless pleas to go faster.

Wordlessly, Jamison groans his agreement and the pace picks up speed. It isn’t long before all finesse is lost as the rhythm devolves into pure carnal rutting, both of you blindly chasing your release. Inelegantly you rock against the other, his cock finding that place within you that makes your toes curl. He groans your name, sending more ripples of ecstasy straight through you.

Suddenly you feel the pleasure cresting, you arch against him, wordlessly signalling your peak with a trembling gasp. When your orgasm hits you for the second time that night, making your legs tremble uncontrollably, he’s there at the edge with you. At the very last moment, he slips out of you, spilling his seed on your stomach with a low, deep groan.

“Fuck,” you say breathlessly, propping yourself up on one elbow and looking down at your stomach. “It’s everywhere.”

Jamison grins at you, sitting back on his heels as both of you readjust your clothing. He tucks his cock back into his pants and you pull your bra and panties back on. He reaches over your hip to blindly grope for something to clean off with.

“Aimin’s overrated, babe,” he says, and looks chagrined when he finds a single sock, stiff as a board. In an instant, his entire demeanor shifts. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sorry, I don't have… uh… anythin’ to…”

Even in the low light, you can see his entire face go tomato red.

“Dammit…” He tosses the sock to the ground, grimacing. “You deserve a nice hotel with wine n’ chocolates and a real fuckin’ bed. Not some dirty tent in the middle of a wasteland…” His brow furrows and turns to leave the tent. “With me.”

Wordlessly you push yourself up into a sitting position and take hold of his bicep. He turns back to face you, ready to argue, and you interrupt him with a kiss. You lean back, his mouth following yours desperately, drawing him down to the bedroll. You nestle against his chest, facing him, and tucking your head beneath his chin. Your legs intertwine with his, silently telling him in no uncertain terms that _this_ is where you want to be. His arms slowly, reluctantly coil around you. The both of you are silent for a long while. His heart is pounding beneath your fingers. He really isn’t used to this, and you have made it your mission to change that.

Eventually, you can tell from his deepening breaths that he’s steadily falling asleep.

“Promise you’ll stay?” he mumbles sluggishly into your hair.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He lets out a low sigh as sleep claims him, and begins to immediately snore. You chuckle under your breath, and listen to his heartbeat drum a steady rhythm in his chest. Eventually sleep finds you, and you drift off into a remarkably peaceful slumber.

You are awoken some time later by heavy footfalls nearby. Your eyes open slowly. It’s still dark out, but there is the tiniest hint of light spreading on the distant horizon. Jamison is still fast asleep, if his snoring is any indication. The footsteps are right by your tent now. Panic suddenly clutching at your lungs, you squeeze your eyes shut tightly, heart hammering in your chest, as someone leans over the pair of you.

_Fuck fuck fuck._

And suddenly both of you are covered in a something scratchy but warm. And the footsteps recede.

Your eyes snap open and you look down to see a thin brown blanket covering your exposed body. Jamison mumbles something about fire and resumes snoring.

You push yourself up into a sitting position to peek out of the open tent. Roadhog has returned at long last, and he sits by the fire now, poking the smoldering coals back to life. At his feet is a crate full of many different items. From what you can tell, there’s some clothing, some food, and sitting on top, some stuffed toy that looks like a pink onion with a smiley face stitched into it. _A pachimari?_ Your half-asleep brain can barely wrap itself around this situation.

Roadhog notices you’re awake and turns to look at you. Naturally he says nothing, but simply stares. This time you feel no judgement from his gaze. Only curiosity.

You pluck pointedly at the blanket and he gives another short nod. Slowly, you smile and mouth the words ‘thank you’ and again he nods, before turning back to the fire and resuming his poking. It feels as if he’s blushing beneath the mask, but it’s impossible to tell.

You settle back beneath the blanket, curling into Jamison’s embrace. He snorts, mumbles something unintelligible, and nuzzles his face into your hair. In turn, you nestle your nose into his neck and shoulder with a contented sigh.

 _This feels right_ , you think, as Jamison’s arms tighten around you. _Feels like I found a treasure after all._


	2. Junk Wash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After months travelling with ex-Junkers, Roadhog and Junkrat, you scrounge enough cash to surprise them with a weekend hotel stay. It takes some convincing, but you manage to actually get Jamison clean for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back for more :)

If there’s one thing you’ve learned from your travels with two exiled Junkers, it’s that life outside of the civilized world is rough.

You adapt quickly to the change in lifestyle. You have to. Traveling with Junkrat and Roadhog is dangerous business. It’s also dirty, tiring, and oftentimes disappointing. More often than not, the three of you retire to your tents sore, bloody, and exhausted. And empty-handed.

The one thing that this life is _not_ , however, is boring.

Every day there’s something new to see, somewhere new to explore, someone new to meet (and try to kill). More than once, the three of you have escaped from situations that would’ve claimed the lives of lesser people. Every night, you patch each other up from whatever scrap you got yourselves into, you share a meal, and then Jamison has his way with you in your shared tent, his hand clamped tightly over your mouth so that you don’t wake up Mako with your noises. After your third night with them, Mako actually _purchases_ earplugs. You don’t think the hand method worked very well.

You bought him a new pachimari to make up for it.

After months of traveling, you also learn to appreciate any source of clean, free water. While Jamison and Mako are more than content to stew in their filth for weeks on end with no reprieve, you still cling to the last vestiges of your cleanliness habits while you can. For a long while, bathing in streams and brooks and public fountains suits you just fine, but you start to yearn for a hot shower and a real bed.

One morning, you wake early, before either Jamison or Mako, and slip out of the camp. You hitchhike to a local town less than 20 minutes away. Some podunk burrough in rural Wisconsin. It’s a quiet, sleepy hamlet, not of much interest to anyone. But it has a hotel.

As you walk down the streets, you take a moment to rip down the wanted signs that bear the faces of Mako and Jamison. _They really are notorious..._

The receptionist sitting behind the counter is less than enthused when dirty, smelly you walks in, and her countenance only gets frostier as you explain you want to invite two wanted criminals into the hotel for the weekend. When you drop a solid gold bar onto the counter, however, her attitude immediately improves. The bar had been spoils from the Junkertown Queen’s personal stash, secreted into your pocket when she wasn’t looking during your last visit. You have three more of them back at the camp. For a special occasion.

Before heading back, you make a quick stop at a local grocery store and get some essentials: toothbrushes, some clean clothes (Mako should fit in a 4XL, right? Maybe not...), a hairbrush. Deodorant. You pay with what’s left of your cash and catch a ride with a local on his way out of town.

The back of the local’s truck is full of landscaping equipment, but there’s just enough room for you. You clutch the keycards tightly in your pocket like a prize, smiling a secretive little smile as you hop off the tail of the truck and crest the hill where your companions camp. You wonder if either of them are awake yet. Luckily, you don’t have to wonder for long.

The moment you reach the top of the hill, Jamison is at your side, a wild and frantic expression on his face. He’s twitchier than usual, too.

“Where’ve you _been_? I woke up and you was gone, and I was --” Abruptly, he flushes crimson, eyes darting from you to Roadhog. “Er. I mean. Roadhog!”

He points an accusatory finger at a sleepy Mako by the fire.

“Roadhog was _worried sick_ about ya, mate, oh it was _pathetic…_ So, um... Where’d you go runnin’ off to?”

A little twinge of guilt plucks at your heartstrings. _Oops._ You hadn’t meant to worry them, even though you’re pretty sure Mako wasn’t worried in the slightest. You produce the keycards from your jacket pocket with an apologetic smile.

“I just wanted to surprise you. I got us rooms at a hotel in town. For the weekend.”

Silence. Jamison and Mako stare at you for a moment. Jamison’s expression is beyond his usual confusion, brows knit, mouth slightly agape. Mako, as always, says little. Wordlessly, he stands, dumps the bucket of water over the smoldering remnants of last night’s fire, and begins packing up the camp. Seems like he’s on board. You turn to Jamison, silently pleading with your eyes for him to accept this.

“...How’d you manage that?” he asks, squinting suspiciously at you.

Blushing, you stuff the keycards back into your pocket. “I have my ways. Help pack up.”

Jamison squints at you for a few more seconds before reluctantly helping. Between the three of you, the camp is broken down in record time, and you all begin the short walk into town laden with your equipment and bags. _Shockingly,_ it’s more difficult to hitchhike when two of you are well-known criminals. You end up walking the whole way this time. Hitchhiking would’ve been trouble than it’s worth, really. You wouldn’t want some terrified dope to report your companions to the police. Because then you’d have to kill some police and that’s just a whole separate issue you’d rather not get into right now.

You guide Mako and Jamison through the town’s alleys and back roads to the hotel’s side entrance. Blessedly, the three of you meet no one on your way to your rooms. As you creep down the halls as quietly as you can, Jamison seems even more on edge than usual. Being somewhere so _clean_ and normal must been messing with him. He whirls constantly on the spot, checking behind him every step of the way to make sure you’re not being followed.

When you arrive at the two doors you’ve booked, you hand Mako a keycard.

“Thanks,” rumbles Mako. He enters the room, hangs the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the handle, and closes the door with a click.

You and Jamison exchange amused glances. _Poor guy. He’s eager to get some time alone_. You’d feel guiltier if it weren’t for the overwhelming excitement bubbling through you. Soon you’d be able to experience a bed, hot water, and climate control for the first time in months.

You turn to your door, swipe the key card, and enter with Jamison hot on your heels.

“I don’t know about this, babe,” mutters Jamison, as he closes the door behind you and sidles into the room. He drops the bags of your equipment unceremoniously by the door, shrugs out of his rip-tire harness, and steps carefully into the room, sniffing the air like it might be poisoned. “It’s so… _clean._ What a hole.” He makes a disgusted face at the boring, inoffensive art framed on the wall.

You laugh under your breath. “You might like being clean.” You close the curtains to the only window in the room, basking you both in semi darkness.

He makes a disgusted noise and shudders. “Don’t you go sayin’ things like that. You’ll give me a conniption.”

“Besides, I thought you said I deserved a hotel… With wine and chocolate.”

Jamison goes scarlet, and says nothing.

Smiling, you turn on a lamp by the bedside and a warm light fills the room. You have to admit, seeing him standing here in a clean, furnished hotel room is a little jarring. This isn’t even a really _nice_ hotel, and he looks completely uncomfortable. There’s a slowly growing pile of ash on the carpet where he’s standing.

“I think… I want a shower, first thing,” you say, shrugging out of your jacket. It’s tossed carelessly onto the little armchair as you pass it on your way to the bathroom. You pull off your boots next, dropping them haphazardly in your wake.

Jamison follows after you. As you explore the bathroom and check out the amenities, he stands in front of the mirror and stares at his reflection. For just a moment, you watch him.

Turning his head from side to side, he opens his mouth wide and inspects his snaggleteeth, running his tongue over his sharp canines. Then he closes his mouth and plucks anxiously at his untameable hair. He frowns at his reflection, brow furrowed. You recognize that expression -- the expression of someone whose thoughts are turning to self-loathing.

Slowly, you come up behind him and slip your arms around his lanky waist. You rest your chin on his shoulder. You smile at his reflection in the mirror.

“Want to join me for that shower?”

Jamison gently pulls away from you, plops down onto the toilet, and sulks. “No thanks, darl, I’ll just wait…”

You arch your eyebrow at him. You had expected resistance, but luckily you have a backup plan, guaranteed to work.

“Suit yourself,” you say airily, and unzip your pants. As slowly as you can, you push the fabric to your ankles, bending over to give him an eyeful of the black panties you wear beneath.

You hear him gulp a lungful of air and smile to yourself. The plan is working beautifully already.

You step out of the bunched jeans pooled on the floor, kick them into the corner, and pull the hem of your t-shirt up and over your head. It joins your jeans on the floor, and you stretch your arms luxuriously above your head, arching your back. A little half-moaned sigh escapes you. Jamie’s gaze practically burns holes into your skin with its intensity now. You can almost sense his hands twitching for you.

“Mm, this shower is gonna feel so good,” you say, more to yourself than to him, and your hands move to the clasp of your bra.

Jamie sucks another breath as the bra comes loose. You drop it to the floor and chance a peek at him over your shoulder.

He’s already sporting a half-chub, if the growing bulge in his pants is any indication. His ravenous gaze rakes without shame across your body. A thrill chases down your spine and your skin ripples with goosebumps. _This’ll teach him to resist me..._

Pretending like you don’t even see him, you slip out of your panties and socks, add them to the pile, and lean into the shower stall to start the water. As you wait for it to warm up, you turn to the mirror behind you, and comb your fingers through your hair to loosen whatever knots are present. Now he has a proper view of you, and he takes full advantage, ogling your nudity without remorse.

He’s still stubbornly seated on the toilet, though.

No matter. The shower is hot now, and you still have an ace up your sleeve. You hum softly as you turn to him, and lean down until your eyes are level with his. Softly, slowly, you kiss him, lingering until he makes a quiet noise of appreciation against your mouth. His lips are greedy, following yours with enthusiasm. His hands twitch on his knees, desperate to take hold of you.

You nibble his bottom lip and smile as he groans against your mouth.

You withdraw, just a little. “Well… I guess if I can’t convince you,” you say with a defeated sigh and a little cluck of your tongue. You straighten up, hands on your hips. “I won’t be long, okay?” With an innocent smile, you step towards the shower and open the frosted glass door.

Jamison looks positively _incensed_ at this clear attempt to manipulate him, but he’s on his feet in a flash, hurriedly unbuckling his belt as you step inside the stall, practically tripping over his own clothes in his rush. Grinning triumphantly to yourself, you watch him undress through the frosted glass for a few moments, before you turn your back on him, close your eyes, and lean into the hot spray of water.

The door slides opens and Jamison stands there, looking unexpectedly embarrassed. It takes you but a half-second to realize why. He’s removed his prosthetic leg and arm, and you realize with a little jolt that you’ve never seen him without them. You gather it’s a difficult thing for him, to be this exposed and vulnerable, and the knowledge that he trusts you this much makes your heart ache.

He takes hold of the handle on the wall and hops over the edge of the tub and into the shower with you, a surly expression painted on his face. You can tell he’s distinctly unaccustomed to moving around without his prosthetics and the feeling of weakness makes him irritable.

You can fix that.

While he’s balanced on his intact leg, you lean up on your tiptoes and kiss him. His arm slides around your waist as he responds, eager as always to taste you. You sidle closer as his mouth lingers against yours, your wet hands carding through his hair, dampening it.

When he lets out a low moan and squeezes your ass, you pull back just an inch, slipping your fingers between his lips and yours with an apologetic little smile.

“The fuck?” he says, scowling at you.

“Hold that thought,” you say and you peck him on the tip of his nose.

You turn and reach up to adjust the shower head so that the stream of water hits you both. You retrieve a washcloth from the shelf, wet it, and pick up the little bar of soap hotels give you. Ignoring his pointed scowling, you scrub the bar against the cloth, forming a rich lather, and drag the soapy cloth across his scrawny chest. You take a step closer, humming softly as you move the cloth across his skin in little circles. Jamison’s eyes flick from your face to the washcloth and back again.

“I thought you wanted --”

“I do, but I also want to take advantage of the shower for its intended purpose,” you say, cutting across him. He wrinkles his nose.

“I can bathe myself, you know,” he says with a little growl to his voice that makes pleasure stir deep in your belly. You slide the cloth lower on his chest, moving towards his groin.

“Where’s the fun in that?” you say softly, as you lean in and press your slick body against his. His half-hard cock twitches to life as you tilt your chin up and kiss him, soft and unhurried, but clearly seeking more. You can tell that he’s trying to resist you, still feeling raw about your manipulating him into showering, but eventually his resolve breaks. His hand slides across your slippery skin to the small of your back, pulling you against his chest possessively. His greedy mouth works against yours like he’s being paid to kiss you, his hand pulling and squeezing every ounce of your flesh he can reach.

With some reluctance, you pull away a little with a smile. Jamison’s brow furrows and his jaw muscle jumps. He is _really_ not having this whole ‘getting clean’ thing. Despite his irritation, you let out a quiet laugh, and resume your scrubbing. As long as you’re within groping distance, he seems content, allowing you to clean him as he busies himself with nipping and kissing your neck and shoulder and collarbone. It’s very distracting.

You bring the cloth down his amputated arm and he reflexively twitches away from your touch with a hiss.

“I’m sorry,” you say, pulling back, suddenly afraid you might’ve hurt him.

Jamison doesn’t meet your gaze for a moment, merely stares at the wall with clenched teeth, collecting himself before speaking. “Not… used to people touchin’ it.”

“...Did I hurt you?”

He shakes his head, flashing you a manic grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “No worries. I get off on pain, sweetheart,” he says with a suggestive wiggle of his brow, trying to build up his wall of humor to deflect, but you can tell he’s still shaken.

You decide not to push it for now. Instead, you return your attention to the task of getting him clean. The washcloth gets a fresh round of lather, and you guide him to sit in the shower’s built-in seat. With the water streaming down your back, you lower yourself between his knees, dragging the rag across his taut stomach and lower. His abdomen tenses under your touch, still so nervous with your closeness even after all this time. You feel his pulse quicken as you skirt around his stiff cock, knowing your feigned ignorance of his desire is really starting to get under his skin.

When your move the rag down his lean thigh instead of around his cock for the second time, he makes a wordless sound of displeasure through gritted teeth. You look up sweetly into his eyes, batting your eyelashes. The picture of innocence.

His brow furrows. “You keep this up, sweetheart, and there’s no tellin’ what I’ll do,” he warns.

You push yourself up on your knees until your lips are inches away from his. You can feel his hot breath ghosting across your wet skin and it sends shivers rippling down your spine. You do so love torturing him this way. He seems decidedly less enthused.

“Mm,” you sigh, tilting your head to one side as you look him over. “Is that a threat, Jamie?”

“Yes,” he replies, with no preamble or hint of irony.

You laugh, and he closes the short distance between your mouth and his to silence you. His hand tangles in your wet hair, holding you firm. There is no escaping this onslaught. Hungrily he claims your lips, neither slow nor gentle. No, he is _rough_ with you, kissing you hard enough to bruise. Your soapy hands drop to his cock and stroke him and he grunts against your mouth. As you continue to stroke him, squeezing just the right way, he relents his claim of your mouth, dropping his forehead to your shoulder and bucking helplessly into your hand. His trembling, staggered moans in your ear are finer than any music. Each small noise he makes sends little jolts of pleasure through your belly, adding fuel to the flames.

After a few more seconds of stroking, you suddenly stop. Jamison’s head snaps up, expression livid, but you ignore him. You retrieve the rag that had slipped from your hands in your passion, and start reapplying soap to it.

“You’re _really_ askin’ for it, babe,” growls Jamison. His voice low and deep like that sends goosebumps rippling across your skin, but you say nothing.

You simply hum in response and resume washing him. Your rag moves across his intact arm slowly, wiping away weeks’ worth of grime and soot. He allows it, but his fingers twitch, desperate to take hold of you.

“So when is it my turn to scrub _you_ down?” he asks. The heat behind his gaze sends your heart skipping frantically in your throat.

“When I’m done with you,” you reply simply, trying to keep your voice level and calm. A difficult task when his expression is so intense and focused on you.

He yanks the washcloth from your hands and hurriedly washes the last few places you’ve yet to reach. When he finishes, he pushes the cloth into your hands and brings his mouth to your neck, clearly eager for the next step in this annoying process. His hand skims across your bare breast, cupping it, brushing his callused thumb across your nipple.

“All clean,” he says, grinning triumphantly against your skin.

“Not yet,” you reply, but now he’s nipping your neck and damn, it’s very hard to concentrate when his mouth moves across your skin like that. His hand at your breast isn’t making things easier, either. He takes your nipple between his thumb and forefinger and rolls it gently. You take a deep shuddering breath to calm the pounding of your heart, and Jamison giggles in your ear.

“I hate waiting, darl, you know that.”

“Let me just get your hair,” you say, and you hate that you practically beg.

Jamison blows out an irritated sigh but straightens, frowning. “Fine.”

With some careful maneuvering, the two of you stand and switch places. Jamison is now the one directly under the water. Surprisingly, it’s still hot. While he leans under the spray and wets his hair completely, you reach for the little complimentary bottle of shampoo.

Jamison straightens, hair now drenched and pushed back from his face. You can’t recall ever seeing him like this and you have to admit, you kind of like it. That’s not to say you don’t love your dirty and grungy Jamison, covered in filth, but this is good, too. You smile. He pulls a surly face, nose wrinkling.

“What’re you grinnin’ at?”

“You’re just… very cute,” you reply, unable to resist stealing a swift kiss from his lips.

He seems genuinely taken aback by your unexpected compliment. The surliness melts away, replaced with wide-eyed surprise and a flush of his cheeks. You press your advantage, reaching up and squirting a liberal amount of shampoo into his hair. As you work his hair into a lather, his gaze follows your face intently, enraptured by you. It’s a habit of his that he’s picked up over these past few months, watching you when he thinks you’re too distracted to notice. It never fails to set your heart skipping in your throat. Is he even aware of what he does to you?

You massage his scalp with your fingernails, working loose the dirt and sweat and blood at the roots of his hair. His eyelids droop pleasurably, clearly fighting the urge to close them so that he can continue to watch you. You barely even notice that you’re shuffling closer to him until your faces are inches apart. He dips his head to capture your lips in a kiss when you’re close enough, drawing his arm around your waist tightly. Your hands fall still in his hair as your mind focuses in on the feel of his lips against yours. You wonder if you’ll ever get used to it.

When he withdraws a fraction to catch his breath, there’s a heat to his gaze that’s somehow different from the normal look he gets when you’ve wound him up. It makes your breath hitch and you don’t really know why.

“You’re _distracting_ me,” you say quietly, tone accusatory, and he grins that mad little grin.

“I know, I’m incorrigible.”

Arm still securely coiled around your waist, he tips his head back to rinse the suds from his hair. With a sigh, he picks up the washcloth, draped over your shoulder, and wraps it around the bar of soap.

“Your turn, babe,” he says, bouncing his eyebrows suggestively. Why does that look in his eye fill you with trepidation?

With the bar of soap wrapped in the washcloth, Jamison slides the soapy bundle across your skin, pointedly ignoring your most sensitive areas. Clearly, he’s attempting to mimic your teasing from before, but you don’t think he’s going to have the patience for it. You bite your lower lip as he drags the soap and washcloth across your belly, just below your breasts.

“What I wouldn’t _give_ to have two hands right now,” he growls, drawing the washcloth down your sides to your hips. “Turn around,” he commands, and you obey.

But it seems Jamison has more on his mind than just getting clean. In fact, quite the opposite. Dropping the washcloth and bar of soap, he sharply pulls your hips flush against his own, allowing you to feel his hard cock slip and slide deliciously against the curve of your ass. You arch your back with a surprised gasp, his arm wraps around the front of you, and his rough fingers settle at your sex. His mouth is at your shoulder and he bites you, marking you. Claiming you. _Mine, all mine._

“Jamie,” you whimper, and you can’t chase the tremble from your voice.

“Mm, darl, you know _I love it_ when you say my name like that,” he says, and his fingers press against your slick folds, quickly finding your clit and circling the little bundle until you moan aloud. Damn, but he really knows how to play you like a fiddle.

You arch again, letting your head fall back against his shoulder while his fingers wind you tighter and tighter. He pushes a single digit inside you, and then a second joins the first. He curls his fingers just so against your inner walls and your hips buck against his hand. With a low, quiet groan at your ear, he rocks against you, grinding himself along your ass -- all the while his fingers pump you, finding that delicious spot that already has your leg spasming. You don’t know how much more you can hold out.

“You gonna cum for me, babe?” he whispers in your ear, and you buck against his hand with a whimper in reply. “Lemme hear you.”

With a cry, you arch back against him, and your orgasm washes over you like the tide. Jamison’s fingers fall in sync with the rhythm of the pleasure, allowing you coast on the sensation for what feels like an eternity. He murmurs filthy things in your ear between your moans, coaxing you to return to earth with nips and kisses. As the last vestiges of your orgasm ebb away, his fingers slowly leave you.

You watch breathlessly as he brings the slick digits to his mouth and licks them clean with the filthiest fucking smile you’ve ever seen curling his lips.

“Shower done, then?” he asks, feigning innocence.

Part of you wants to turn and tease him more, draw out the shower for as long as you can just to torment him. But a stronger part of you knows that you won’t be able to handle much more of this. You turn to face him and slip your arms around his neck.

“Should’ve known your patience would run out,” you say accusatorily.

Jamison wiggles his eyebrows. “Yes, you should’ve.”

You fumble with the knob to turn off the water, distracted by the indecent smirk still curving his lips. You step out of the shower first, reaching for one of the clean towels hanging from a nearby rack, and wrapping it around your naked body. He steadies himself with a hand on your shoulder, and hops out of the tub. Again, the notion that he dislikes being so reliant on your help to get around gives your stomach a guilty twinge.

You retrieve another towel, and drape it over his head. Just as he’s about to protest, you begin rubbing it vigorously to dry him off.

He makes little wordless nonsensical noises as you dry his hair, and you have to bite back a giggle. Laughing at him now won’t do his ego any favors. When you drape the towel around his shoulders, however, you can’t help it. His hair is a wild mess now, sticking out in odd places and extra fluffy from the vigorous drying off you gave it.  You laugh and Jamison’s cheeks go pink, but at least he offers a sheepish smile.

He straightens and clears his throat, still blushing. “I would very much like my leg back, please,” he says, putting on a mock haughty tone.

You guide him to sit on the toilet, and pick up his prosthetics from where he’d dropped them.

“I-I can do it myself,” he says. He isn’t smiling anymore.

You hesitate for a moment, knowing that he’s embarrassed. Your heart aches. “I know… But I’d like to help you, if that’s okay.”

His face is nearly crimson now. Without meeting your gaze, he gives a little nod. “Yeah, alright…”

You decide to start with the leg first. Placing his arm in the sink, you bend over and line up the prosthetic to his amputated leg, sliding the end of it into the bindings and tightening the strap until it fits snugly. He gives a short, pained grunt through gritted teeth.

“Is that okay?”

“S’fine.”

Experimentally, he gives his leg a stretch, bending and straightening the appendage before looking up at you expectantly. As you slide his amputated arm into the bindings of his second prosthetic, you can feel his eyes on you again, intently drinking in your face. The question of how this had happened to him burns in your mind, but now’s not the time for invasive questions. He’ll tell you the story when he’s ready. Or drunk enough.

When his prosthetics are both satisfactorily applied, he stands and draws you into his embrace.

“Thanks, darl,” he says, and there’s a sincerity to his voice you don’t hear often. Your cheeks feel suddenly warm, and it has nothing to do with the steamy bathroom.

Without responding, you reach up and run your fingers through his damp hair to tame some of its fluff, smoothing it back away from his face. Now that he’s clean, he looks completely different. A good different. You wonder how long it’ll last.

Jamison dips his head to kiss you, sweetly at first, and then it’s as if he suddenly remembers the events of the shower. Arms tightening around you, he moves his lips to your jaw and neck. He nips your still-damp skin, you respond with a pleased sigh, and he giggles in your ear.

“Now… where were we?”

You tilt your head to one side to allow him better access to your skin. “Mm, I don’t know,” you say coyly, biting back a smile. “Why don’t you remind me?”

The look on his face is nothing short of _vulgar._ A little thrill chases down your spine.

His mechanical hand takes hold of the towel you wear, and with a quick jerk, whips it off you. You barely have time to react before his mouth is claiming yours in a searing kiss, driving the breath from your lungs and the rational thoughts from your head. As gracelessly as possible, the pair of you make your way from the bathroom to the bed, lips barely parting the whole way. You fall upon the mattress beneath him, and he wastes no time. His mouth forges an eager and impatient path down the length of your body.

“Ain’t a proper fuck till I’ve had my head ‘tween your legs, sweetheart,” he says, grinning, and he hooks one of your knees over his shoulder.

“Jamie,” you moan, and he answers by wrapping his arm around your other thigh and leaning in to taste you.

It never ceases to amaze you just how _good_ he is at this. Distantly, you wonder just how he got so good at it. How many others had experienced this secret talent of his? His tongue swipes against your slickness, his nose brushing your clit, and it isn’t long before you feel that familiar coil of warmth tightening in your belly. Your hips arch, bucking against his skilled mouth, and your fingers take hold of his hair.

“I’m almost there, please, Jamie, I --”

With a muffled noise of acknowledgement, he slides two rough fingers into your slick entrance, curling them upwards with each pump, and this quickly becomes your undoing.

You cry out as the pleasure reaches its apex and Jamison is with you the whole way, slowing his fingers and tongue to the pulses of your orgasm. Your thighs tense around his head and you writhe, riding the waves until they finally ebb away, replaced with a soft, delicious throbbing between your legs. With a sigh you fall limp onto the sheets, breathing hard.

Jamison crawls up onto the bed beside you, wiping his mouth on his bicep and grinning. The expression on his face is downright smug, and your cheeks go hot.

“You don’t have to look so pleased with yourself,” you say, covering your face with your hands and rolling onto your side.

“‘Course I do,” he replies matter-of-factly. “I bet no one else makes you scream like that.” A tiny giggle escapes him as he settles behind you, his lanky torso pressed against your back.

“...No, not ever.”

“Exactly,” he says, and he presses a kiss to your shoulder. His arm drapes itself over your waist, but it doesn’t stay still for long. His callused hand glides slowly along the length of your body, never content to remain in one place. He kneads a breast and then its twin, he strokes your stomach, he massages your hips. He trails warm, wet kisses along your neck and shoulder.  He pulls your hips flush against his, and you can’t stop the moan that escapes you as his stiff cock grinds against your backside.

“See what you do to me, sweetheart?” he says, low and deep, in your ear. “Crikey, I could cum just from lookin’ at ya.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you ask, and you arch playfully against him.

For just a few moments, Jamison teases the both of you. He rocks against your body, his free hand caressing and kneading each of your breasts as you torment one another with this little game. You _ache_ for penetration, pleading breathlessly and in the filthiest terms you can think of, knowing he wants to be inside you more than anything.

Eventually, he relents.

“Roll over,” he commands, and without a second thought you obey, rolling onto all fours. He comes up behind you on his knees, pressing your thighs apart farther as his flesh hand slides across your backside.

“Don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seein’ you like this, babe,” he says, his voice breathy and low. He gives your ass a single, sharp slap and you bury your delighted gasp in the sheets. “Ass up, all wet and ready for me…” His fingers touch you in that sensitive place, between your trembling legs, moving across your clit until you cry out with overstimulation.

You feel the head of his cock slip against your slick sex and you arch your back in desperation. His mouth meets your shoulder, biting again, as he takes himself in hand and pushes slowly into you at long last.

“Mm, you’re fuckin’ _beautiful_ , sweetheart,” he groans in your ear, but all you can do is moan in response as his length fills you, inch by inch, until he’s fully hilted. Murmuring an equal amount of filthy and sweet nothings in your ear, Jamison begins his rhythm. His hips slap against yours at a steady pace, his hand extending to massage your breast. Everything is too sensitive, too much, and a raw undercurrent of throbbing pain chases the pleasure as his rhythm increases tempo. The headboard of the bed thumps against the wall in time with his thrusts.

A distant part of you makes a mental note to apologize to Mako tomorrow.

The pair of you continue for several minutes, the slap of your hips and your pleasured moans punctuating the silence. Occasionally, his mouth is at your neck and shoulder, biting and kissing in equal measure. His hands grip your hips and waist hard enough to leave bruises, and you look forward to seeing them tomorrow.

It isn’t long before your third orgasm comes hurtling towards you out of nowhere. The pleasure makes you cry out sharply, your toes curling, as it swamps your senses. You let out a squeal as your leg spasms uncontrollably. And he’s right there with you this time, groaning out your name while his hips stutter and twitch. At the last moment, he slips out and spills himself all over your backside with a satisfied, trembling moan.

Slowly you collapse under him, flat upon the sheets and breathing hard. Jamison falls with you, lying atop you for a few minutes to collect himself. His weight on your back is warm and welcome, pressing you into the mattress.

With a sigh, he brushes aside your hair and kisses the nape of your neck. Then he lays on you fully, cheek pressed against your shoulder blade. “Wow,” he says breathlessly, and you smile.

“Something on your mind, Jamie?”

“That was… I don’t… Words are failin’ me, here.”

You let out a soft hum. “Words never were your strong suit,” you say and he makes a sound like a winded horse.

For several blissful minutes, the pair of you lie in a heap on the bed, limbs askew and pulses slowing to normal. Animated as always, his fingertips trace featherlight patterns across your skin, painting invisible whorls and curves across your back and hip, eventually finding your hand. Your fingers tangle together and you feel the calluses on his palm and fingers catch against your skin. It’s a wonderfully lazy way to recuperate.

Just as you start to drift off into a peaceful doze, Jamison shifts. He lifts his head from your back and speaks up.

“I’m kinda hungry.”

A muffled, sleepy laugh escapes you. “Oh, Jamison, you’re a true romantic. Be still my heart.”

“I can be romantic over dinner…” he says defensively.

“Pizza, then?”

“Only if we can have anchovies on it,” he replies, pushing himself up from the bed and crossing the room to the shopping bag full of new clothes for the both of you.

“Bleh, fine! You’re lucky I love you.”

The words leave your mouth before you fully realize what you’re saying. The room becomes very quiet all of a sudden and you squeeze your eyes shut. You want to disappear. As the seconds of silence drag on, you dare not open your eyes to see the look on his face. You don’t even notice him return back to the bed until the mattress dips suddenly behind you as he kneels on it. With a sigh, he leans over you, kissing your shoulder and neck and jaw, wordlessly saying all the things his voice cannot. Not yet, not yet _._

 _Give me some time, darl,_ he says, without speaking, _The words are there but they scare me. Patience.._. His lips are at your ear.

“The luckiest bloke in the world.”

 


	3. Junk Sandwich

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Widowmaker has been experimenting with her venom mine formula. You, Junkrat, and Roadhog, become her unwitting guinea pigs with some explosive results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's shorter than the others for some reason. don't blame me idk what i'm doing

Even the most typical of days with the ex-Junkers can end in wildest of ways. More than once you’ve all had your breakfast interrupted by explosions. And they aren’t always coming from Jamison, either. You’ve come to learn to roll with the punches when it comes to life with Roadhog and Junkrat, and have taken life in stride. But sometimes, things… still take you by surprise. There you are, simply picking up some items from Jamison and Mako’s old hideout on the outskirts of Junkertown, when Widowmaker shows up and _ruins_ everything.

You’re standing there outside the little shack, impatiently waiting for Jamison to finish collecting whatever it is he's so insistent on getting, when the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. Something doesn’t feel quite right. A moment later, and Mako’s massive hand has grabbed the front of your shirt. He yanks you to the ground roughly, and a bullet rips through the air where your _head_ had been seconds before. The two of you hurriedly duck into a nearby empty shack to avoid further assassination attempts. Breathlessly, you press your back to the side of the door, waiting.

“Bonjour, salauds!” yells a voice from somewhere above you. It sounds smug. Definitely Widowmaker. “Ze Queen has had enough of your snoopink around! Time for you to go!”

“OY, YA GREAT PURPLE CUNT,” screeches Jamison, poking his head out from the door of his shack, before quickly retracting it as another bullet whizzes past. “FUCK OFF!”

Amelie’s amused laughter echoes from seemingly all around you, making it impossible to detect a location. Mako nudges you with his large arm and points to another building several feet in the distance. Confused, you squint at where he points. You glimpse a brief glimmer of a scope catching the brilliant Australian sun from a little balcony on the building’s second story. So that’s where she’s perched. Mako readies his hook, and looks at you.

“Distract her,” he says, and you nod. How the fuck are you supposed to do that, though?

Regardless, you trail after Mako as he ducks from the building. Carefully, the pair of you make your way closer to where you think she’s lying in wait for you. Every so often, you hear another bullet tear through the air, the reverberating sounds echoing off the metal and wood buildings. Jamison’s enraged screeching usually answers.

“Merde, just _hold still_ , you disgustink little man!”

“FUCK YOU!”

When you and Mako arrive at her location, however, things go from bad to complete shit in less than three seconds. As he moves closer, Mako gestures to something on the ground, but you misunderstand him. It was meant as a _warning._ He turns towards the steps, you move forward to follow him, and step _directly_ on top of Amelie’s hidden venom mine.

Instantaneously, the air around you and Mako fills with a thick, pinkish fog. Eyes watering, you cover your mouth with the crook of your arm, but it’s too late. Already you can feel the poison inside your lungs, burning and painful. Coughing and hacking, you fall to your knees. Distantly, you’re aware of Mako disappearing from sight and the sound of Amelie’s gun -- or was that Mako’s? -- firing several times in quick succession, but everything is a blur. You can’t see, you can’t _breathe_ . You fruitlessly gulp lungfuls of smoky air, only to cough and wheeze until your chest aches. This is it. This is how you die. Death by venom mine. _How pathetic..._

Suddenly, a figure swims into view, pushing its way into the thick pink haze. Squinting through your tears, you see Jamison’s face, his expression terrified. There’s a black and yellow bandana tied across his nose and mouth. Wordlessly, he grabs your arm, pulls it around his neck, and hoists you to your feet. The pair of you clumsily retreat to a nearby hovel, where Jamison deposits you gently onto a pile of sandbags in the corner. Eyes squeezed shut, you take huge lungfuls of clean air, willing your pulse to return to normal. Your skin prickles uncomfortably, like you’re too near an open flame. But you aren’t dead. Why aren’t you dead?

“Fuck,” snarls Jamison, yanking the bandana down to his neck. He paces, agitated, hands on his hips. “Fuckin’ cunt, almost took me head clean off --” Suddenly, as if remembering you, he comes to a halt and stares with wide, nervous eyes.

“Are you okay? Nearly thought you was --” He cuts himself off, grimaces, awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, and crouches in front of you to look you over. His skin is flushed, excited, but it’s impossible to tell why. The Australian heat? The exertion of rescuing you? Or is it something else? He wets his lips and you have to swallow a moan.

You feel very warm. Taking deep, steadying breaths, you shrug out of your jacket. Jamison’s hand comes to a rest on your thigh and it’s like he’s burned you with a red-hot fire poker. Heart pounding, you twitch and push his hand away. The moment he moves it, you mourn the loss of contact. What the hell is happening to you? You put a hand to your swimming, dizzy head.

Without warning, your skin feels like it’s on _fire,_ your very veins burning with stimulation _._ Judging from the way Jamison’s hands and brows twitch, the same mysterious sensation is boiling its way through him as well. He meets your gaze, and you can see your own desire reflected in his golden eyes. In half a second, the two of you crash into one another, eager hands tearing impatiently at clothing. His mouth is _everywhere_ at once, moving from place to place feverishly and leaving scorching, _burning_ kisses and nips in its wake.

“Jamie…”

Adrenaline forcing clumsiness into your hands, you unbuckle his rip tire harness and push it from his shoulders. It falls to the ground with thump and he kicks it away. Your palms skim across his taut muscled stomach and travel north to his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. Jamison captures your mouth in another rough, sharp kiss and growls against your lips. Hurriedly he bunches the hem of your shirt, pulling up the fabric to give his questing hands access to the skin beneath.

His touch is  _hot_ against your skin and sparking like lightning, and seems only to fan the sudden flames building within you. You let out a piteous whine of frustration as he palms your breast through your bra.

“I gotcha, sweetheart,” Jamison says reassuringly between kisses. Your fingernails dig into the nape of his neck and he hisses through clenched teeth. “Mm, _fuck_ , do I ever.”

As he presses you back against the sandbags, hungry mouth biting and kissing and muttering filthy things in your ear, understanding slowly dawns upon your addled mind.

“Widow’s venom mine,” you say with a gasp, arching against his chest as he grinds himself mindlessly against you. You have to fight to keep your thoughts coherent. Your eyes squeeze shut. “I-It wasn’t poison, it was --”

“Don’t care,” he interrupts. “Just gotta fuck you, babe. Now. Don’t care, _don’t care_ … Just gonna make you come till ya can’t walk...” Another low snarl escapes him as he yanks you roughly closer, drawing your thighs around his waist. He’s hard already. Your hands slips between his legs to cup him through his shorts and a low, tumultuous groan escapes him. Between fierce, brutal kisses, he softly murmurs your name, setting your heart pounding in your chest. Even when you’re both blind with desire, he finds ways to make butterflies flutter in your stomach.

As gracelessly as possible, the pair of you slide down the sandbag pile and collapse in a tangle on the dusty floor.

There’s no time for foreplay, and frankly, it’s not even necessary. Widowmaker’s potent pheromone poison has your entire body on edge, and you’re not the only one. Jamison’s cock is standing at the ready, pressing insistently against your inner thigh as he bucks against you. Muttering under his breath, he pulls away and gives your jeans a quick, sharp yank. The jeans and panties are discarded without a care, and his calloused fingers slides between your legs to test your slickness. A sharp, surprised moan escapes you. He grins and rolls you onto all fours.

“Fuck, babe,” mutters Jamison, his voice very near to your ear. A low, breathy cackle sends shivers up and down your spine. “You’re _drenched…_ ”

“Shut _up,_ Jamison,” you say with a snarl. Every moment he delays you feel as if your skin might catch fire, and the sensation is driving you mad.

“Impatient little thing, ain’t ya?” he says in a low, deep voice, and you feel the head of his cock slip against your slick entrance. When did he even unbutton his shorts? You bite back a moan.

“Why don’t you beg for me, darl?”

“W-What?”

“You heard me. I said I want you to _beg._ I wanna hear you… _desperate_...” he growls, and again he purposefully slips against your slickness, teasing you. You whimper, nearly frantic in your desire for penetration, but he still doesn’t oblige you. The effects of Widowmaker’s poison must not be working nearly as much on him as it is you. A sound of pure frustration escapes you, but Jamison only giggles in response. If you both lived through this, you’re going to kill him.

“I can’t _hear_ you,” he says in a sing song voice, and his flesh hand slips beneath the neck of your shirt and under your bra to massage your breast. His callouses catch on the sensitive skin and a keening moan escapes you. His cock rubs against the curve of your backside, teasing you with sensation. A reminder for things to come.

“Please,” you gasp, arching upwards as he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The overwhelming desire for pleasure has your mind temporarily addled and words are hard to find. It’s like being drunk on an empty stomach. “Please, Jamie, I can’t… I-I need you…” Your arms tremble as he continues his merciless onslaught of your breast. “Fuck me, Jamie, _please_. Please.”

“Thaaaaat’s it, sweetheart,” he coos lovingly in your ear, his hand leaving your breast at long last. With a low, deep growl, he slides home to the hilt in one slow push. You cry aloud at your joining, your chest falling flat onto the dusty floor as he begins a punishing rhythm without hesitation. Every thrust sends lightning pleasure arcing white hot through your veins. Your fingers scrabble for purchase on the floorboards, seeking something to anchor you. The sweet ache inside lessens and grows simultaneously, you feel drunk with ecstasy, barely in control of yourself. Is this going to be your undoing? Maybe that was Widowmaker’s plan all along...

Jamison squeezes your ass and hips with each firm thrust, and suddenly, he pulls back a hand, and slaps you soundly across one cheek. You let out a startled squeak, head snapping up, and see a massive figure standing in the door. His bulk practically fills the entire frame.

Mako. How long has he been standing there, watching you? Under normal conditions, you and Jamison would leap apart in embarrassment. But Widowmaker’s pheromone poison is potent, indeed.

Instead of allowing yourself to be embarrassed, you call out to him, gesture for him to join you. At the back of your mind, shame attempts to burn a hole in you from the inside out, but your libido is in control now, and it quickly tamps down the urge to feel mortified. Jamison’s pace barely even slows down as Mako edges nervously into the room. Judging from the considerably larger than normal bulge he’s sporting, the mask wasn’t very effective against whatever the hell Widowmaker put in that bomb.

Mako approaches uncertainly, but you are ravenous, insatiable. You reach out, your fingers hook into his pants, and you yank him closer with all your strength. It’s a good thing that he’s interested, because if he didn’t come willingly, you wouldn’t have been able to move him. With a low grunt, Mako steps closer. Your hands quickly find the fly of his pants, and eagerly unzip them.

It seems in the outback, going commando is more common than kangaroos.

A quiet, satisfied noise escapes Mako as his stiff cock springs free from his pants. God help you, he’s _so thick._ You look up at his masked face, take him in hand, and give his length an experimental stroke. Another low, rough grunt escapes him and his massive fingers twitch. It’s obvious he’s restraining himself. Maybe he’s uncertain or maybe he just doesn’t want to accidentally hurt you. A smile curves your lips as you look up at him again.

“Go ahead, big guy,” you say, voice breathless. “You won’t break me.”

“Don’t be so sure,” he says, in that deep, deep rumble of his. His large hand cradles the back of your head, and suddenly you’re very aware of just how _big_ he is. What have you gotten yourself into this time?

With Jamison at your back and Mako at your front, the maddening edge has started to abate, but only just. There’s still fire in your veins and electricity in your skin, spurring you forward. With a low sigh, you take the head of Mako’s thick cock in your mouth, sucking gently, and his fingers curl tight at the nape of your neck. Your tongue moves around the tip in circles, your hand strokes the shaft, and a quiet curse escapes Mako.

“Fffuuuuck.”

“Think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard ya swear, pigface,” cackles Jamison, grinning wickedly at his large friend. Mako doesn’t seem to hear him.

You take his cock deeper into your mouth, slowly allowing your throat to adjust to the size of him. Somewhere in your mind, you’re both praising and cursing Amelie’s name.

With his hand at the back of your head, Mako suddenly pulls your face over his cock a bit rougher than you like. Well, someone’s certainly eager. You gag and resist him, and he immediately releases your head. A creeping red blush peeks out from under his mask. Guess he really can’t control himself when he’s excited.

“...Sorry…” he says.

You pull off and swallow hard. Jamison slows to a halt behind you, palms stroking and squeezing your hips reassuringly until you’ve collected yourself. You’re fine, really, just surprised by the sudden movement. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and offer a little smile up at Mako.

“It’s okay,” you reply. “Just go gently.”

Mako nods once, his massive hand cups the side of your face, and you eagerly return to your task. Again you take his length into your mouth, tongue pressing firmly against the underside of his shaft as you suck. He groans raggedly, his fingers tightening in your hair as you take him deeper and deeper. Each time you pull back, you hollow your cheeks, you give a little moan. Mako’s groans of pleasure spur you onward, pleasure curling deep in your chest. Jamison’s pace begins again, slow, easy, an arm wrapping around your hips, and a hand finding your dripping sex.

When his fingertips circle your clit, expertly timed with his thrusts, a moan from deep within your throat escapes you. The vibrations against his cock drag _glorious_ sounds from Mako, whose hands curl and uncurl reflexively against the back of your head. Involuntarily, his hips buck towards your mouth, but this time you’re ready for him. Humming, you move with his thrust, looking up through your lashes into the blank eyes of his mask. You’d love to get a look at his expression right about now.

He growls appreciatively. After this, you don’t think you’ll ever be able to see him the same way. You slowly pull off him, licking your lips with a sultry smile. Mako groans something unintelligible, but you catch a snippet of your name somewhere in there.

Jamison’s mouth is suddenly at your neck. With a growl, he bites down, a sharp nip of pain, then soothing the spot with a kiss. An ecstatic shiver chases through you. From the corner of your eye, you see Mako stroking himself as he watches. A thrill surges through you and another moan escapes your lips. You’re unsure if this is some new kink you’re discovering, or if the pheromone poison is simply lowering your inhibitions, but you _like_ being watched. Your thighs tense suddenly as you feel the pleasure rising. Jamison, recognizing the signs of your coming orgasm, picks up the pace. The edge of pleasure hurtles towards you fast and hard, and you let out a squeal as it washes over you. Arms unable to support your weight, you allow your upper body to fall upon the floor.

Both Jamison and Mako chuckle as they watch you ride out the waves, trembling and twitching between them.

“What a sight you are,” says Jamison in your ear, and you hear rather than see the grin on his lips. He slips out of you, satisfied you’ve gotten yours.

“Mako, mate, that... is an impressive cock, I gotta say.”

“...Thanks.”

For just a moment, as you lie there sweat-slicked and satisfied, you think maybe the worst of the poison’s effects have passed. Unfortunately, it is but a brief respite. An unbearable, insatiable heat steadily builds between your legs again, somehow _worse_ than before. You feel as if you might go mad from it, this burning ache within you. With a low, tortured moan, you rise to your knees, turn to Jamison, and yank him closer by his ears.

“Again.”

His impish grin melts away and his eyes widen, but there’s no time to argue. Your lips crash into his ravenously, and you push him forcefully back down to the floor. In a heartbeat, you’re straddling his waist, whimpering against his mouth. His cock is pinned between the two of you, pressed flat against his stomach. The underside of it brushes against your sex and your hips roll involuntarily, grinding yourself against him. Your breathy, shaky moan answers his call of your name.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” growls Jamison as you gyrate atop him. “We gotta get our hands on whatever Widowmaker put in that bomb… C’mere.”

He wriggles beneath you, pushing your hips up towards his chest. At first, you’re confused. What the hell is he doing? Then he looks up at you, a ravenous gleam in his eye, and licks his lips like a hungry wolf. You understand, and a hot blush blossoms across your skin.

“N-No, I --” you try to protest, but Jamison is having none of it.

“Shut your gorgeous face, darl,” he says, pushing your hips up to his head. “Let ol’ Jamison Fawkes the first, king of --” The rest of his sentence, however, is lost, muffled by your slick sex overlapping his mouth.

It’s probably the sloppiest, _wettest_ oral you’ve ever had, but the boy always knows the best places to put that talented tongue when it comes to you. His hands on your ass, squeezing firmly, Jamison punctuates your pleasure with deep moans of his own, sending delicious vibrations against your clit. It’s almost too much to bear. You gasp his name sharply. Jamison’s satisfied chuckles are muffled, but his stubble drags against your thighs as he smiles.

Suddenly a pair of large hands envelop your chest from behind, pushing up the shirt to expose you. You have completely forgotten about Mako, but he hasn’t forgotten about you. His hands knead your breasts through your bra, calloused thumbs catching on the material, and you cry out, arching back against his shoulder. This has become like something from your fantasies. Maybe this is a dream… Maybe you’ll wake up in a tent with a sleeping Jamison drooling on your stomach.

There’s a sudden ripping sound and your bra falls away to the floor. _There goes another one,_ you think ruefully, but the regret is short-lived. Mako’s hands squeeze and massage your breasts, pinching the hardened nipples until you squeal and twitch. A low chuckle escapes him, and you _swear_ you heard him say something about a “little piggy.”

The pleasure builds fast, almost too fast. You can barely even _enjoy_ it. For the second time, your orgasm overtakes you. You cry out, uncontrollably lifting upwards but Jamison’s arms tighten around your hips and hold you fast. He’s not _finished_ with you yet. He continues on, thoroughly licking you clean until you writhe and practically sob from overstimulation. When he finally relents, you slump back, limp and boneless, against Mako’s chest.

Jamison wriggles, pushing your hips from his face until you’ve settled on his stomach. He shoots you a smug, toothy grin, wiping away the slick from his lips with his bicep. “There, I think that’s about --”

But the unbearable ache has resumed before he can finish. It burns you from the inside out, like you’ve swallowed a roaring bonfire. A choked, raw moan escapes you. You lurch forward, tired but determined, and steal a kiss from his mouth. You can taste your own salt and slick on Jamison’s lips and tongue. Your hands rake through his hair, fingernails digging into his scalp. He groans shakily. You pull back to look him in the eye, breathing hard.

“ _Again._ ”

Jamison’s expression goes from smug to just a little concerned now. Round three is usually pushing it for you. But Mako is, as usual, the better prepared of the two. He sidles forward on his knees, grasps your hips, and pulls you back onto his waiting cock. There’s a delicious stretch as his girth slowly fills you, inch by inch, until he’s fully inside. Mako’s massive hands squeeze your hips and he groans out your name. Your limbs tremble as sensation overtakes you. Shit, he’s _huge._ You had always kind of wondered...

“Fuck, Mako,” you gasp, looking at him over your shoulder. A low, rumbling growl escapes him as he slides slowly out. You let out a tiny whine from the lack of contact. His hips snap forward, you jerk with the impact, and gasp sharply. The rhythm Mako sets is slow, measured, _unhurried_. He’s got all goddamn night, it seems. How long does this poison last for? Goddammit, Amelie.

Meanwhile, Jamison’s mouth has found your exposed breast, tongue hot and talented, sharp teeth grazing the nipple until you whimper. His hands slips between your legs to find your clit, knowing exactly how to drag another orgasm from you.

“Shit, I love seein’ you like this,” says Jamison, voice muffled by your breasts. He presses a kiss between them. “You’re a _fuckin’_ gorgeous thing, you are.”

“J-Jamie --”

“Shh, just come for me, beautiful.”

This last hill takes a little longer to crest. The pheromone bomb must finally be wearing off after hours of play. Mako’s cock and Jamison’s fingers work in tandem with one another, building the last fire between your legs until the pleasure comes to a sharp, sudden apex. You practically scream the arrival your orgasm, muffling the sound of your voice by dropping your face to Jamison’s chest. The twinging throb of muscle over-extension chases the pleasure, and you barely notice Mako slipping out and finishing on your ass. You are suddenly very, very tired.

With all the grace of a slug, you droop entirely, lying flat atop Jamison. Dust and dirty clings to your sweat-slicked skin. At last, the nearly painful ache within you has abated. Your veins cool, your pulse slows to normal. A slow, contented sigh escapes you, and you bury your face in the crook of Jamison’s neck. How long you lay this way is a mystery. You teeter in and out of consciousness for a minute or maybe twelve. Distantly, you’re aware of Mako shifting and leaving the room, but you’re too exhausted to look up.

Jamison chuckles, his arms tightening around your waist. “All better?”

“Mmm…” is all you can manage.

“Don’t go falling asleep just yet, sweetheart,” he says, and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Let’s get you to an actual bed, ey?”

Gently, Jamison extricates himself from underneath you and lifts you to your feet, allowing you to lean against him for support. Something scratchy but warm wraps around your shoulders. A blanket. That’s where Mako had gone. You draw it around yourself, wishing for nothing more than to sleep for the next three days.  Jamison reassuringly rubs your back while you lean heavily against him, and Mako collects the discarded clothing. You yawn hard enough to crack your jaw, and realize your legs have become jelly. It’s frankly a miracle that you’re standing at all.

“Can’t walk,” you mumble, and Jamison gives another chuckle.

“Mission is accomplished, then. No worries. I gotcha.” He scoops you into his arms like a sack of potatoes, cradling you against his chest. “Ain’t too far.”

A few minutes pass by in an uneventful, if sleepy, haze, as the three of you make your way back. You realize dimly that night has fallen. An entire day lost because of your own stupidity. You’d kick yourself if you weren’t so exhausted.

Mako and Jamison bring you to the little shack on the outskirts of Junkertown, to the lumpy old mattress in the corner. Mako enters first, hurriedly lighting a few lanterns and candles to bathe the shack’s interior in warm, soft light. Gently, Jamison lowers you onto the bed, brushes the hair from your eyes with the backs of his fingers. He hesitates for just a moment, brow furrowed as he regards you. You can almost see the gears in his head turning. Eventually he reaches a decision and turns to leave.

Your hand leaves the warmth of the blankets and takes hold of his wrist.

“Wait,” you say, lucid just enough to realize he doesn’t intend to stay. “Where are you going?”

“You need sleep, babe. You get all cranky when you’re tired,” he replies, but he doesn’t try to pull away from your grasp. There’s a strange look in his eye that you can’t quite place. Embarrassment? Concern? Maybe it’s just dark.

“If I need sleep, then you do, too.”

Jamison fails to fight a mad little grin from curving his lips. In mock annoyance, he blows out a deep sigh and rolls his eyes.

“Alright, alright, ya don’t have to beg. Scooch over then, babe,” he says, plucking the blanket’s edge to climb beneath it with you. He draws you deep into his embrace, long, lanky arms wrapping around you and holding you against his chest. Your head tucks under his chin automatically, and his eternally moving hands trace light patterns across your back. It’s a familiar position for the two of you, face to face like this. He smells like an on-fire gas station, but you’ve come to love that smell. You’ve come to love everything about him, really. His breathing and his heartbeat, both at a steady rhythm, lull you like a song. You feel the insistent, irresistible tug of sleep at the corner of your mind, but this is just _so nice_ and you don’t want to miss it.

“...You didn’t get to come,” you say, half-yawning around the words.

He snorts a little chuckle into your hair. “Ah, no worries.” Again, he hesitates for just a moment before continuing, and his arms tighten a little around you as he speaks. “I’m just. I’m real glad you’re okay. Scared the shit outta me, sweetheart…”

“I’m sorry. I was dumb,” you say softly. A guilty twinge tugs at your heart. Are you ever going to learn not to make these kinds of mistakes? You’re always worrying him.

Immediately, he tilts your chin up until his lips can find yours in the low light. As he kisses you, deep and slow and _just right,_ his hand cradles the side of your face. Is he shaking? Yes, there’s a distinct tremor in his fingers as they wind slowly in your hair. Had the idea of you being injured or dead shaken him this much? When he pulls away, his eyes are bright with unshed tears. He offers a little smile, and hastily wipes a hand over his eyes with an embarrassed chuckle.

“...Didn’t know what I was gonna do without ya.”

There’s such raw emotion in his gaze that it makes your chest feel tight. Sometimes you forget that beneath that happy-go-lucky joker exterior, there’s a scared and lonely man, desperate for love and kindness. Gently, you tuck your head beneath his chin, your hands curved at your throat. You press a sleepy kiss to his collarbone and snuggle deeper into his embrace.

“You won’t get rid of me that easy,” you mumble, and smile.

He laughs then, gentle and quiet, and squeezes you. “I hope not.”

The sweet siren song of sleep calls to you louder now, inescapably drawing you towards the edge of unconsciousness. Jamison whispers something in your ear, but you’re already too gone to hear it. With your face buried against his throat, you slide into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

You awake slowly, almost luxuriously, despite the setting. You become aware of your surroundings in pieces -- the dusty light floating through cracks in the hovel’s walls, the quiet rumble of Jamison’s snoring. With a deep, soft sigh, you shift, trying to find that magic position that lets you sleep just a few more minutes. There’s something heavy resting against your hip, however, preventing you from moving. Your eyelids flutter open reluctantly. You rub the sleepy film from your eyes and squint angrily at whatever’s pinning you down.

It’s Mako’s huge arm, slung over both you and Jamison. You’re currently sandwiched between both ex-Junkers, Jamison at your front and Mako curled against your back. A slow, hot blush rises in your cheeks, but you smile a little. _This feels nice..._ Jamison mutters something unintelligible and shifts closer, his own arm draping itself over your waist. Mako’s rumbling snores go briefly quiet on his exhale, and then begin again at full volume.

You grin to yourself and snuggle deeper into the space between them. What a bunch of misfits and freaks. You couldn’t ask for better friends.

As you doze off once more, warm and content and secure, you make a mental note to send Amelie a thank you card.


	4. Snowjunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now a permanent member of the team, you, Junkrat, and Roadhog have come to the United States in the dead of winter to do some reconnaissance. The three of you find a tiny cabin in the snow, and you and Jamison get nice and cozy on a bearskin rug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M TOO LATE FOR CHRISTMAS I AM A SHAM

The United States is usually cold this time of year. Even so, the weather takes all three of you by surprise. Snow is to be expected, but this is a veritable blizzard that blankets the entire midwest. Jamison has insisted the three of you travel here to this frozen tundra to do some recon and eventually some robbing. With the sun quickly setting over the snow, the three of you beat a hasty retreat into the wilderness to find a place to camp for the night. With your camping equipment stowed in a pack on Mako’s back and some stolen supplies stowed in your own pack, you hike from the town and into the frosty white trees.

Slowly and cautiously, the three of you make your way from the warm glow of the city and into the darkening woods. Your little party pauses several times to rest along the way. During one such rest, it begins to snow. It starts with light flurries and quickly escalates into heavy snowfall.

“Crikey…”

He’s staring up at the sky, eyes wide as saucers, while the snow falls heavy and silent around him. Snow in the irradiated Outback is a rarity, even during the winter months, and he’s simply never experienced it falling like this. With his breath billowing from his lips in little clouds that hang around his face, Jamison’s eyes move rapidly across the sky, staring in awe at the white flakes that float from the heavens and dust his hair and shoulders. As if he’s unable to fully take in what’s happening around him. He extends his living hand, fiery eyes watching in wonder as flakes collect in his palm.

With a little giggle, you stealthily approach him from behind, and ruffle his hair to jostle loose the snow clinging to it. He grunts in surprise, but before he can turn and stop you, you pull a warm knit beanie, nicked from a shop in town, down over his head. Just little bit too far, so it covers his eyes. For a moment, he flails blindly, trying in vain to right the hat on his head.

“You’re gonna get sick if you stand out here in the cold like this, Jamie,” you say, when he whirls around to face you. With a disgruntled snarl to his lip, he yanks the hat away from his eyes and saddles you with a glare.

“I ain’t gonna get sick,” he replies insistently, and your answering giggle only makes his glower grow deeper.

“You’re so cute.”

“Am not. I’m manly as fuck.”

Another giggle escapes you, and ignoring his pointed glare, you reach up and wrap a large red scarf (also nicked from a shop in town) around his neck. Luckily for you _and_ him, you’ve managed to talk him into putting on a warm sweater (blue with white kangaroos hopping across it in lines) and some actual jeans, but he was still resistant towards the idea of layers and bundling up, for some strange reason that even _he_ can’t explain. He mutters petulantly as you wrap the length of knit fabric around his neck once, and then twice. The scarf now covers his chin and mouth, and comes up just beneath his nose. With his mechanical hand, he plucks at the scarf to adjust it, nose wrinkled.

“I already told you, darl, I don’t need --”

Ah, but he makes a fatal error in his little speech. He leans down to speak to you, and that’s when you pounce. Quick as a flash, you lean up on your tiptoes, take hold of the sides of his face, and kiss the tip of his pointed nose, right on that little freckle you love so much. Startled by the sudden public display of affection, he jerks out of your grip with a squeak, and his cheeks turn a beautiful shade of pink. There was nothing cuter than a flustered Jamie, in your humble opinion.

When you shuffle closer, inch by inch, and slide your arms around his neck, his annoyed glower softens. With his living hand, he unravels the scarf and drapes it around the both of you, sharing the warmth and grinning that little lopsided smirk that makes your heart flutter. He leans in, eyes half-lidded, you stretch up to meet him halfway, seeking his lips --

Suddenly, a fast-moving _blur_ of pure white collides with the side of Jamison’s head. With a startled noise somewhere between a grunt and a mouse’s squeak, he pitches sharply to one side with the momentum of the projectile, and crumples immediately, ass over tea kettle, into the snow. _What in the actual fuck?_

Blinking fast, you whirl on the spot the face the direction from which the projectile came, and glimpse in the distance a hulking figure holding what looks to be a substantial armful of snowballs. A wheezing laugh, low and raspy, reaches your ears, as the figure tosses and catches a single snowball in one massive, meaty fist. A slow, unsure smile curls your lip. Are you to be the next victim? Uncertainly, you shuffle backward, hands held up in surrender, waiting icy oblivion.

Mako only laughs again.

“Oy! Mako, you fuckhead, that was _not fair!”_ Jamison snarls, sitting upright and brushing snow from his sweater. Snatching up the hat that’s been dislodged by enemy fire, he gets to his mismatched feet, and yanks the hat back onto his head. With a surly glower aimed at Mako in the distance, Jamison jabs an accusatory finger into the air at his massive companion. “I wasn’t payin’ attention, mate, don’t you --”

Another snowball immediately silences him. In the distance, a wheezy laugh answers Jamison’s enraged squeakings as he reels backward from the force of the blow. You can’t help but laugh, too -- the expression painted all over his snow-encrusted face is just too cute to ignore. Cursing under his breath, he wipes away snow from his eyes and mouth. His hat as been once again knocked askew, and it falls from his hair, forgotten.

Jamison’s eyes flick to you and narrow the instant you giggle, and your laughter immediately ceases. _Oh fuck._

“You’re gonna pay for that one, darl,” mutters Jamison, slowly easing himself onto all fours like a feral beast, a wicked gleam in his eye.

With a squeal, you turn on your heel and book it, running away from him as fast as your legs can take you. But it’s not quite fast enough. Cackling maniacally, Jamison catches up to you in surprising little time. Considering his peg leg, you had hoped to gain more of a head start before he barrels into you, but it’s a mere twenty seconds before you feel his arms wrap around you from behind. With an undignified squawk, you pitch forward with the momentum of his tackle, and the pair of you tumble into the fluffy snowbank.

“Jamie!” you screech, as you roll and tumble for a few inches before coming to an eventual halt, you lying sprawled across his chest. Both of you burst into a hysterical fit of laughter, cheeks rosy from exertion and the snow, breath ghosting out in clouds from your lips. You laugh and laugh and laugh until your lungs ache, desperate for air, and your cheeks grow tired from smiling. You kiss him -- his cheeks, his jaw, his grinning, laughing mouth. He brushes snow from your hair with his long fingers.

Thunderous footsteps approach the pair of you. Your laughter dies in your throat as Mako looms over you both, his arms laden with snowballs. There’s a beat of silence as all three of you stay still, awaiting the others to move.

And then Mako intentionally drops several snowballs on Jamison’s face at once, and in a blur of motion, the battle immediately begins anew. Mako is slower but his aim is better, and he can lob the snowballs with much more power than you and Jamison combined. The ensuing fray is legendary. Surely bards will sing songs of this glorious battle. The three of you give chase through the frozen landscape, dodging around snow-laden pines and quickly becoming lost in the sparse trees.

Eventually, the three of you collapse, exhausted, in a pile on the ground. You on top of Jamison, and Jamison on top of Mako. The three of you stare in silence up at the sky as the snow falls all around you in a silent haze. As you regain your breath, you come to realize that none of you have any _clue_ as to your location, and the night is steadily growing darker.

“Mako, can we make camp?”

With a grunt of exertion, he sits up, and points a thick finger at a dark shape in the distance. It’s somehow escaped your notice until this very moment. Squinting through the snow, you manage to make out the blurry outline of what looks to be a cabin, nestled in a clearing of trees. The windows are dark, the snow is piled high on the roof, and there are no signs of life to the little building whatsoever.

“...Is it abandoned?”

Mako only shrugs in response, and lurches heavily to his feet. Wordlessly, he starts trundling towards the cabin, leaving a trail of massive footprints in his wake. Next to you, Jamison levers himself into a sitting position, brushing snow from his sweater and hair. He shoots you a curious glance, eyebrow quirked.

“What d’ya reckon?”

“I don’t know, it’s almost like… He knew it was here. That’s impossible, right?”

Jamison only shrugs in response, just as puzzled as you are.

Both of you get to your feet and hurry after him, using his trail to make traversing the snow easier. Jamison leaps comically from footprint to footprint, strongly reminding you of a puppy. More than twice he falls face first into the snow, but it barely slows him down. He beats you to the door.

“So?” he asks of Mako, who is peering into the frosted windows with his hands cupped around the eyes of his mask.

“Empty,” Mako rumbles. “And locked.”

“Pff,” Jamison scoffs, shooting Mako a derisive glare. “Luckily ya got ol’ ‘Skeleton Key’ Fawkes with ya,” he continues, wiggling his fingers with a wicked grin on his lips. Giggling maniacally, he tiptoes towards the door, and takes a knee before the lock. From somewhere on his person, Jamison produces a single paper clip and a thin, sharp knife. With a twitch of his clever fingers, he unbends the paper clip into a straight piece of wire.

“...No one calls you that,” Mako says.

Ignoring him, Jamison sets about picking the lock on the door. He fiddles with it, mumbling under his breath, while you and Mako watch on in silence. The cold is beginning to get unbearable, and you’re audibly shivering within seconds. You can only imagine how cold Mako must be in his too-small sweater.. After about a minute of impatiently waiting, you scoop up a nearby rock from the ground and heft it, to simply _smash_ the window open, when you hear the successful click of the lock.

Triumphantly squawking, Jamison leaps to his feet, chest puffed proudly, and opens the door. Mako squeezes into the door ahead of you, and as you pass by Jamison, you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. Immediately, he flushes a deep crimson, and a goofy, awkward laugh escapes him.

As you enter the little cabin, the smell of dusty taxidermy hits your nose like a brick. The walls of the cabin are lined with multiple trophies -- deer, bison, mountain lion, wolf. A bearskin rug lies spread before the hearth, its maw twisted and snarling. A large moose head decorates the space above the mantle. Judging from the layer of dust on everything, the owner of this cabin hasn’t been by in weeks to clean, and it simply _reeks_. Instinctively, you clap your hand over your nose, and behind you, Jamison makes a disgusted retching sound.

“Fuck me runnin’, that’s _foul_ ,” Jamison growls, pinching his nose.

“No worse than you after a week on the road,” Mako replies, and a wheezy laugh follows Jamison’s offended grunt.

A fire is quickly built in the fireplace, Mako working diligently to burn away the cold while you and Jamison explore the little cabin. The living room is large and the furniture simple but robust. You suspect it might’ve been handmade. Two bedrooms, that’s convenient. A little kitchen with a fridge (empty, of course), a stove, a coffee pot. A single bathroom with a large whirlpool tub impresses even Jamison.

“Hooley dooley, I bet even Mako could fit in there,” Jamison says, and draws you into his arms. “Mm... but I think you and me should get dibs.”

“Jamie…”

Grinning from ear to ear, he leans down to kiss you — lips moving from yours to your jaw and beyond. Like the snow that dusts his hair, you melt from the heat of him, clinging to his shoulders to remain standing. His kiss turns your knees to jelly. His mechanical hand travels the length of your body, squeezing the curve of your ass with eager fingers. Just as his living hand dips beneath the hem of your shirt, Mako clears his throat, and the pair of you reluctantly part.

Jamison shoots Mako a reproachful glare. “The fuck, mate?”

“Dinner,” Mako rumbles, holding up a grocery bag full of the food you’ve stolen from the town in one giant fist.

For the next hour or two, the three of you stuff your empty bellies with sausages and sandwiches and cheese and chips, and pass around a very expensive bottle of stolen wine… And two more are produced once the first is emptied. With a full belly and a head full of wine, Mako eventually pushes himself from the couch with a heavy sigh. Pulling up the mask to expose his mouth, he presses a clumsy kiss to your lips and cheeks. The unexpected show of affection makes you giggle, but that might’ve just been the wine. Mako turns and does the same to Jamison, ruffling his hair as he pulls away. Wordlessly, Mako crosses to one of the bedroom doors, and disappears inside.

With a sigh, you settle back onto the bearskin rug, arms stretched above your head. The wine has made you pleasantly warm and giggly and content. The world is at peace. A low, soft hum escapes you as you stretch, languid like a cat.

“Fuck,” Jamie mutters, sitting on his heels and staring at you with wide eyes.

Your eyes flick to his face, and a little smile curves your lip. “What?”

“Oh, just. Seein’ you, laying here with this lighting.” Tongue between his teeth, he makes a show of holding up his hands, thumbs and forefingers extended, to frame you against the crackling fire like a photographer. “I gotta say it makes you look… _absolutely_ disgusting, darl.” Grinning mischievously, he wrinkles his nose in mock distaste.

“Fuck you,” you reply, giggling and swatting at his hands playfully.

“Is that a request?” He arches a brow, and his grin turns positively wolfish.

“Well, I’m apparently _disgusting_ so I --”

“Oh, shut your gorgeous face,” he mutters, quickly closing the distance between the pair of you to claim your mouth with his. With a content sigh, your arms wrap around his neck, draw him in deeper. Despite the cold temperature and the drastically different setting, he still tastes the same -- vaguely like a campfire doused with gasoline, but you’ve come to appreciate that taste. When your hand knocks the hat from his head, he breaks the kiss with a chuckle.

“Mm, Jamie…”

His hands are everywhere all at once, energetic and fidgety like the rest of him. With his mouth on your neck, he murmurs sweet nothings between warm kisses, pulling breathless moans from your lips with each whispered word. When his sharp canines drag across your pulse point, keen and slow and _oh_ so good, a hiss through clenched teeth answers -- and so it goes, both of you playing off the other. Your noises echo his and vice versa. Everything about him is warm, even after spending hours playing out in the snow. His touch almost _burns_ you -- almost.

“Fuck, babe,” he whispers, and his voice pitches lower into those deep gravelly registers that he _knows_ make your toes curl. “Never thought I’d get a second alone with ya. You look so fuckin’ pretty out there in all that white stuff.” As he speaks, he shifts atop you on hands and knees, nestling himself between your thighs. You feel him, hard and ready for you, and he presses insistently against your hips. A little shiver ripples down your spine.

“‘Course,” he continues, lazily trailing wet kisses down your neck and shoulder, even as his damnable hips grind almost casually against you. “That’s nothin’ compared to how you look _now_ … All riled up, needy, wrigglin’ yourself against me. Mm, ain’t you a beaut?”

“Don’t tease me, Jamie,” you say, hating that there’s an edge of pleading to your voice.

“Ah, but that’s half the fun, sweetheart,” he replies, and his teeth sink into the softness of your neck. He sucks ravenously at your skin, leaving red blossoms in the wake of his kiss, and you melt beneath him on the bearskin rug. “Ya want this?” he whispers in your ear, pressing his trapped cock against your inner thigh.

“Yes,” you say,

“Say please, darl,” he says, and that little giggle that bubbles from his lips has heat pooling in your lower stomach. When you hesitate, he presses his stiffness firmly against you, again and again, panting in your ear as if he’s actually fucking you. The friction builds a fire within you, hot like his skin and his eyes and his breath, creating a desperation that only grows with each passing second. You moan and arch against him, seeking more of that delicious heat. Jamison hooks one of your legs around his waist, his demand of _please_ forgotten in the haze, and his hips grind relentlessly against you.

“Fuck me runnin’, you’re a _gorgeous_ thing,” he says, in that same rough, gravelly voice as before, the one that has you wriggling with desire beneath him.

“Jamie...”

“Oh, keep sayin’ my name like that, sweetheart. Drives a man wild, it does.” Eagerly, his living hand dives beneath your sweater, seeking the curve of your breast with those greedy, greedy fingers.

Your own hands move to the fly of his pants, but he bats them away, impatient. “No fuckin’ way, darl. Romantical setting like this, man’s gotta take his time… Make ya feel real good,” he whispers. “Gotta have a real taste of ya.” With an impatient little noise, he shoves the material of your sweater upwards, exposing your stomach and breast. Hungrily, his mouth descends, sharp and wet and _hot._ He paints a meandering trail across your skin with lips and teeth and tongue, moving from your collarbone to your ribs to your stomach and lower. Shit, but it feels _good._ Jamison’s never been one for patience, but when it comes to this, when it comes to _you_ , his patience is _infinite._

At last, he finally comes to the waistband of your jeans. Fingers twitching on the button, he pauses to look up at you. In the flickering light of the fire, his eyes gleam like two mini explosions in the distance, alight with an intense focus so rarely seen on his face. You wriggle your hips, expectant, playful. But he only stares at your face with those entrancing eyes, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“Jamie?”

Your voice seems to penetrate whatever trance he’s in, and he jerks a little in surprise. A smile, genuine and slightly sheepish, curves lopsided across his face. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbles, turning his attention to the fly of your jeans. The button pops open with ease, and those nimble, clever fingers hook into your belt loops. As he eases them down, brushing his lips reverently against each piece of skin revealed, he breathes out a shaky sigh.

“I just… fuckin’ love ya, yanno?” he says, mumbling the words between kisses pressed to your stomach and hips. He pulls off your jeans and tosses them carelessly away, returning immediately to you. His living hand glides up your thigh, slow and deliberate. “Twisted freak like me? With someone like you?” He shakes his head. “Crikey, I don’t deserve you, sweetness,” he says, quiet but heartfelt, and there’s a raw quality to his voice -- something honest and warm and yet so terrifying all at once.

“Shut up,” you reply, barely able to speak around your heart, now that it has leapt into your throat.

A little giggle bubbles from his lips as he leans down, brushing his cheekbone against your hip. “You know I ain’t so good at that, babe.”

“Better put that mouth to good use then.”

With a soft hum, Jamison lowers himself flat onto his stomach, spreading your thighs with his hands, and hooking one over his shoulder. His mouth moves across the soft skin of your inner legs, forging a frustrating trail closer and closer to where you need it most. With his eyes focused on your face, he presses his tongue flat against you, through the crotch of your panties, just a tease. Just a light touch.

A soft sigh of pleasure escapes you, his name clinging to the tail end of your moan, and he slowly draws a knee beneath himself. Lying on one’s stomach is harder with an erection, or so you assume.

Slow and deliberate, he circles around where you need his mouth the most, gaze locked onto your face intently as the moments pass. Again his tongue presses against the fabric of your panties, and again, a soft noise of _need_ escapes your throat. His breath ghosts across your skin, hot and harsh and erratic -- this little game is torturous for him, too. Your fingers move automatically to his hair, seeking an anchor, and they curl there at the base of his skull.

A low growl answers your moans. His mechanical arm slides beneath your thigh and around, pressing down against your hips to keep you in place. An appreciative hum escapes him as his thumb hooks into the crotch of your panties, pulling them aside to reveal you to his hungry mouth. Eagerly, his tongue moves across your slickness, and oh, the _noises_ he makes. Groans and sighs and _delicious_ growls -- each sound sending your further towards the edge until you writhe beneath him. As his mouth moves, his head bobs, animated and energetic as always.

“Jamie,” you whimper, arching as his tongue circles closer and closer to that little sensitive bud. His mechanical hand presses you back to the rug.

Smirking, he lifts his head from your slickness, dragging that damnable tongue across his lips. “Mm, you always taste so fuckin’ sweet, babe… Let’s get these outta the way,” he says, and catches his clever fingers in the waistband of your briefs. A little giggle bubbles from his throat, ecstatic and eager, and he slides your undies from your hips. With a renewed vigor, he returns to his task, fiery eyes trained on your face.

Your fingers tighten in his hair.

His tongue moves, hot and messy and _wet_ , probing deeper against your folds. You murmur and coo your approval as he works you, building within you this molten coil of pure pleasure. For several minutes, he dances around your clit, teasing you with that _fucking_ tongue of his. He flicks the tip of his tongue against you until you cry out, only to move away the second you begin to respond. It is a _frustrating_ game.

“Jamieeeee,” you finally mewl, hips twitching in desperation. He chuckles against your cunt, low and deep, and you _almost_ hate him for it.

At long last, he draws the little bud into his mouth and sucks _hard._ This is the last nudge you need. With his name on your lips like a mantra and stars bursting behind your eyelids, you arch upwards, gasping out the arrival of your orgasm. If it weren’t for the press of his mechanical arm to your hip and lower stomach, you’d float away in ecstasy. Jamison _growls_ against your lower lips as he laps up all you have to give, before lifting his head at long last. You lie there on the bearskin rug, breathing like you’ve just run a marathon, heart pounding. Fuck, he’s too good.

“I’ll _never_ get tired of that,” he says, and you can practically _see_ the smug radiating off him. Slowly, he crawls up the length of your body, wiping his glistening mouth on the back of his living hand. “The noises you make, babe,” he whispers, leaning down to nuzzle against your throat. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

“You’re so sweet tonight,” you say, giggling as he nips a particularly ticklish spot along your neck. As he lowers himself fully atop you, you arms automatically wrap around his shoulders.

“Guess the season’s got me feelin’ all gooey,” he replies in your ear, and his hips grind against yours. That trapped hardness brushes against your unclothed thigh. “‘Course you got me feelin’ a little different, darl.” A low groan escapes past his clenched teeth as he draws your thighs around his waist. A trail of sharp kisses moves down your neck and shoulder, and at the back of your mind, you know that marks of red with reveal themselves come morning.

“Mmm, good,” you say, and your fingers trail down his stomach towards the waistband of his jeans. While his mouth marks you for the world to see, your fingers fumble with the button. He’s just so _damn_ distracting. The way his mouth moves across your skin has your fingers trembling. When they slip from the fly of his jeans for a third time, he giggles in your ear.

“Havin’ some trouble there, darl?”

“You’re _distracting_ me,” you reply accusatorily, and he responds by biting hard on your shoulder, like he’s dead set on drinking your essence. “Hhn, _Jamie…_ ”

Cackling quietly, he sits back on his heels, and his nimble fingers overlap yours, guiding you to unbutton the fly of his jeans. Impatient now, you push at the fabric of his pants, desperately seeking that tent his boxers have pitched. With some careful maneuvering, he wriggles out of his jeans, and returns to you. Mouth meeting yours in an eager but clumsy kiss, Jamison hitches your legs around his waist, and again that stiffness brushes against your inner thigh. A needy whine escapes you. At this point, you’re going to go mad from the ache building inside you.

“Mmm, I got ya, babe…” he replies, hands fumbling with the waistband of his boxers. At long last, his cock springs free, stiff and already leaking. In the blink of an eye, your fingers curl around his length, loose and gentle, stroking slow from base to tip. Shuddering, he moans your name, deep from within his chest, and takes himself in hand. A few slips against your slickness and he finds purchase, easing into you with a growl. _Finally,_ blissfully, he fills you, inch by inch. You cry out, thighs tensing around his hips.

“Ahhh fuck me, you feel so _fuckin’_ good,” he mumbles, bracing himself on his elbows as he starts moving. Panting rough and ragged in your ear, Jamison thrusts into you, slow and deep, pausing at the hilt with each pump. With a thoughtful hum, he shoots you a gleeful smirk, and hooks one of your knees over his shoulder. Your thigh burns a little at being stretched this way, but he eases you into it nice and slow. His cock moves further within you, until you cry out from the sensation. With his living arm wrapped around your thigh, he picks up the pace. Growling, he rocks against you _hard_ , rutting like a beast in heat, savoring every little noise he pulls from your lips. Your thigh aches as he leans down to capture your lips in a kiss, without slowing down.

“Don’t stop, Jamie… _harder._ ”

“Oh, sweetness, we ain’t gonna stop till you wake up ol’ Pigface with your screaming,” he replies, grinning that wicked grin and returning to pounding into you. He continues on, thrusting hard and fast and deep, making good on his promise to have you yelling. It doesn’t take long for your moans to reach a higher pitch. You hang on the cusp, just barely on the threshold of orgasm, until his mechanical fingers find your clit and start rubbing vigorously. It’s the last little nudge you need, and your orgasm surges through you like electricity.

Jamison’s own release chases on the heels of your own, and with a deep, gut-wrenching groan, he slips out and finishes on your stomach. Hot and thick ropes of white paint your skin. Breathing hard, he gently eases your leg down from his shoulder, and starts searching for something to clean up with. A hiss of pain escapes you as your thigh returns to its normal position after the several minutes it’s spent stretched. Jamison’s lips curve into a rueful smile.

“Sorry, sweetheart.”

“Owwwww,” you whine, rubbing your aching thigh. But you smile, because he’s found a dish towel and he’s cleaning off your stomach with such tenderness that it makes your heart skip a beat. When you’re cleaned off, he tosses the rag carelessly away. “Thank you,” you say softly, cheeks flushed.

“I’ll always be here to take care of ya, darl,” he replies, pausing to kiss you sweetly, and retrieves a few blankets from the couch. The pair of you make up a little nest on the bearskin rug, and get comfortable, cuddling in your skivvies. With him curled protectively around you, arms holding you firm and safe against his bare chest, you mumble a few words against his throat.

“Love you, Jamie.”

His arms tighten imperceptibly around you, and he sleepily replies. “Love ya too, darl.”


End file.
